v,> 


mm 


ft 


v^ 


""  IMPRESSIONS 


/^ 


AND 


REMINISCENCES. 


BT 


GEORGE    SAND. 


TRAN8LATKD    BT     H.     K.     ADAMS. 


WITH  MEMOIR. 


BOSTON : 
WILLIAM     F.    GILL     &    COMPANY. 

1877. 


COPYBIGHT. 
BY   W.  F.   GILL   &    OO. 

1876. 


BOSTON : 

8TKEBOTYPED   BY  O.  J.  PETEB8  AlfD   BOH, 

73  FEOEUAL  BTBEET. 


gnv 


^^55377 


1]^   MEMOEIAM. 


Madame  Amantixe  Lucile  Aurore  -  Ditdevant, 
botter  known  by  her  pseudonyme  "  George  Sand," 
■was  the  daughter  of  the  Marquis  Maurice  Dupin  da 
Franceuil.  She  was  born  at  Paris,  July  5,  1804,  and 
died  there  June  8,  1876.  She  was  brought  up  at  the 
Chateau  de  Nohant  by  her  grandmother,  the  Comtesse 
de  Horn,  a  woman  of  strong  intellect.  Her  theories 
Influenced  the  training  of  the  3'oung  Aurore,  who,  at 
the  age  of  fifteen,  could  ride  and  dance  with  ease  and 
gi'ace,  handle  a  gun,  or  flourish  a  sword,  with  equal 
dexterity.  At  fifteen  she  was  placed  at  the  Convent 
of  the  Augustines  Anglaises,  at  Paris,  for  the  purpose 
of  receiving  religious  instruction.  Her  imagination 
was  captivated  by  the  Roman  Catholic  faith ;  and 
she  embraced  it  with  her  whole  soul.  After  the 
death  of  her  grandmother,  and  under  the  dictation 
of  her  family,  she,  in  1822,  married  the  Baron 
Dudevant,  a  man  of  mature  years,  and  little  calcu- 
lated to  interest  the  affections  of  a  young  wife.     The 

iii 


IV  JN  MEMORIAM. 

fortune  of  his  3'outhful  bride  enabled  him  to  carry  out 
his  agricultural  schemes ;  but  he  did  not  appear 
sensible  to  the  fact,  that  with  her  natural  vigor  of 
mind,  and  sensibility  of  character,  she  was  leading  a 
monotonous  and  hopeless  existence. 

Resolving  to  divert  her  mind  from  her  melancholy 
lot,  she  sought  the  society  of  such  friends  as  she 
could  assemble  around  her.  Among  these  was  M. 
Jules  Sandeau,  a  young  law-student  who  spent  a 
vacation  at  Nohant,  and  was  the  first  to  inspire  her 
with  a  longing  for  literary  distinction.  It  would 
seem  that  feelings  of  doubt  and  suspicion  aggravated 
the  harsh  characteristics  of  her  husband ;  for  their 
life  became  insupportable  to  both,  and  his  wife,  by 
the  sacrifice  of  her  fortune,  procured  his  assent  to 
a  separation.  She  hastened  to  Paris,  and  once  more 
entered  the  Convent  of  the  Augustines  Anglaises ; 
but  her  mind  had  become  too  much  habituated  to 
excitement  to  rest  quietly  in  so  calm  a  haven,  and 
she  longed  to  share  in  the  busy  turmoil  of  life.  Her 
next  transition  was  to  a  little  garret  in  the  Quai 
St.  Michel  at  Paris,  where  she  had  to  struggle  against 
absolute  povert}^  and  formed  plans  with  M.  Jules 
Sandeau,  whose  worldly  circumstances*  were  no  better 
than  her  own,  for  the  supply  of  each  day's  necessities. 
Having  a  little  skill  in  painting,  Mme.  Dudevant  was 
induced   to   accept    employment    occasionally   offered 


IN  MEMORIAM.  V 

by  a  toy-vender,  in  ornamenting  candlesticks  and 
srufF-boxes.  But  this  wearisome  and  ill-paid  work 
disgusted  her;  and  the  two  aspirants  for  fortune 
resolved  to  seek  advice  from  M.  Latouche,  the  editor 
of  "  Figaro,"  who  suggested  literature  as  a  profession, 
and  encouraged  them  to  write  for  his  own  paper.  This 
led  to  the  curious  literary  partnership  which  so  greatly 
mystified  the  Parisian  press. 

A  series  of  articles  in  "  Figaro "  were  followed 
by  a  novel  called  ''Rose  et  Blanche,"  to  which  was 
appended  the  signature  of  "Jules  Sand."  The  authors 
received  eighty  dollars  for  this  manuscript,  and  for  a 
time  led  a  life  of  ease  and  gayety.  It  was  at  this 
period  that  Mme.  Dudevant  first  gave  ofience  by 
donninof  male  attire,  assumed  by  her  for  greater 
independence  of  action.  Being  soon  again  in  strait- 
ened circumstances,  Mme.  Dudevant  was  advised  to 
revisit  Ben-i  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  legal 
separation,  or  at  least  an  alimentary  allowance,  from 
her  husband.  Previous  to  her  departure,  saj-s  one 
of  her  biographers,  slie  arranged  with  M.  Sandeau 
the  plan  of  a  novel,  certain  portions  of  which  were 
to  be  completed  by  each  before  their  next  meeting. 
The  student  did  not  fulfil  his  share  of  the  undertak- 
insr;  but  on  her  return  Mme.  Dudevant  surprised 
him  with  the  complete  manuscript  of  "  Indiana," 
which   was   sold   fur   u    hundred   and   twenty  dollars, 


Vi  IN  MEMORIAM. 

and  met  with  rapid  success.  It  introduced  to  the 
public  the  name  of  "  George  Sand ;  "  for  M.  Sandeau, 
unwilling  to  accept  a  share  of  the  distinction  he  had 
neglected  to  earn,  refused  to  permit  their  ordinary 
pen-name  to  be  used  in  this  instance.  Her  next  two 
novels  were  "Valentine"  and  "Lelia,"  the  latter 
being  published  in  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Monde s  " 
in  1833.  In  1834  she  travelled  through  Italy  in 
company  with  Alfred  de  Musset ;  and  she  afterward 
wrote  "  Les  Lettres  d'un  Vo3'ageur,"  wherein  she 
gave  an  entertaining  account  of  her  journe}-,  as  well 
as  her  opinions  on  various  subjects.  This  book  was 
followed  by  "Jacques,"  "Andre,"  and  "  Le  Secre- 
taire," three"  novels  of  considerable  merit.  Returning 
to  France  in  1835,  she  met  Michel  de  Bourges,  the 
eloquent  lawyer,  who  drew  her  into  politics  ;  Lamenais, 
with  whom  she  debated  the  higher  questions  of  religion  ; 
and  Pierre  Leroux,  who  initiated  her  into  the  doc- 
trines of  socialism.  Their  influence  was  perceptible 
in  several  of  her  subsequent  works,  such  as  "Simon," 
"Spiridon,"  and  "  Consuelo." 

In  1838  Mme.  Dudevant  obtained  a  decree  by 
which  she  was  legally  separated  from  her  husband, 
and  restored  to  the  management  of  her  fortune  and 
the  guardianship  of  her  two  children.  Her  life  now 
became  comparatively  settled.  She  made  Nohant  a 
resort  for  her  friends,  and  attended  to  her  childi'en's 


IN  MEMORIAM.  Vll 

education,  without  neglecting  her  literary  labors.  In 
1838,  for  the  benefit  of  her  son's  health,  she  spent 
a  winter  in  Majorca,  where  she  was  accompanied  by 
the  pianist  Chopin.  In  1845  she  turned  her  pen  to 
new  and  more  congenial  subjects,  and  produced  pas- 
toral novels  unparalleled  for  charm,  simplicity,  and 
artlessness. 

The  revolutionary  movement  of  1848  enlisted  the 
ardent  sj-mpathies  of  "George  Sand."  She  is  said 
to  have  written  newspaper  articles  defending  the 
measures  of  Ledru-Rollin,  then  a  member  of  the 
Provisional  Government ;  but  a  few  months  afterward 
she  returned  to  her  country  home  and  literary  pursuits. 
In  1854  she  f>ublished  in  the  "  Presse "  newspaper 
an  interesting  autobiogi-aph}'.  A  detailed  list  of  her 
works  would  occupy  considerable  space.  Besides  a 
large  number  of  popular  novels,  "George  Sand"  was 
author  of  several  plays,  some  of  which  achieved  great 
success.  Her  plays,  before  being  represented  in  Paris, 
were  usuall}'  acted  and  criticised  in  a  little  theatre 
attached  to  her  chateau. 

The  position  of  "  George  Sand  "  in  European  litera- 
ture may  be  judged  by  the  opinion  of  some  of  her 
distinguished  contemporaries.  Thackeray  said  of  her, 
"  Iler  style  is  noble,  and  beautifully  rich  and  pure. 
She  has  an  exuberant  imagination,  and  with  it  a 
very  chaste  style  of  expression.     She  never   scarcely 


Viii  IN  MEMORIAM. 

indulges  in  declamation,  and  yet  her  sentences  are 
exquisitely  melodious  and  full.  She  leaves  you  at 
the  end  of  one  of  her  brief,  rich,  melancholy  sen- 
tences, with  plenty  of  food  for  future  cogitation.  I 
can't  express  to  you  the  charm  of  them :  they  seem 
to  me  like  the  sound  of  country  bells  falling  sweetly 
and  sadly  upon  the  ear."  The  German  poet  Heine 
wrote,  "  She  has  naturalness,  taste,  a  strong  love 
of  truth,  enthusiasm ;  and  all  these  qualities  are 
linked  together  by  the  most  severe,  as  also  the 
most  perfect,  harmony.  The  genius  of  Mme.  George 
Sand  has  an  amplitude  exquisitely  beautiful.  What- 
ever she  feels  or  thinks  breathes  grace,  and  makes 
you  dream  of  immense  deeps.  Her  stj'le  is  a  revela- 
tion of  pure  and  melodious  form."  George  H.  Lewes 
said,  "No  man  could  have  written  her  books;  for 
no  man  could  have  had  her  experience,  even  with  a 
genius  equal  to  her  own.  Both  philosopher  and 
critic  must  perceive  that  these  writings  of  hers  are 
original,  are  genuine,  are  transcripts  of  experience, 
and,  as  such,  fulfil  the  primar}^  condition  of  all 
literature."  Michelet  called  her  "the  grand  prosa- 
teur  of  the  nineteenth  century."  John  Stuart  Mill 
declared  that,  "as  a  specimen  of  purely  artistic 
excellence,  there  is  not  in  all  modern  literature  any 
thing  superior  to  the  prose  of  Mme.  Sand,  whose 
style  acts  upon  the  nei-vous  system  like  a  symphony 


IN   mi:  MORI  AM.  IX 

of  Haydn  or  Mozart."  Reviewing  her  career,  Justin 
McCarth}'  said,  "  George  Sand  is  probabh'  the  most 
influential  writer  of  our  daj-.  Her  genius  has  been 
felt  as  a  power  in  every  countr}'  where  people  read 
any  manner  of  books.  She  is  beyond  comparison 
the  greatest  living  novelist  of  France,  and  has  won 
this  position  by  the  most  legitimate  application  of 
the  gifts  of  an  artist.  With  all  her  marvellous 
fecundity,  she  has  hardly  ever  given  to  the  world 
Sioy  work  which  does  not  seem,  at  least,  to  have 
been  the  subject  of  the  most  elaborate  and  patient 
care.  The  prose  of  George  Sand  stands  out  con- 
spicuous for  its  wonderful  expressiveness  and  force, 
its  almost  perfect  beaut}'.  She  is,  after  Rousseau, 
the  one  only  great  French  author  who  has  looked 
directly  and  lovingly  into  the  face  of  Nature,  and 
learned  the  secrets  which  skies  and  waters,  fields 
and  lanes,  can  teach  to  the  heart  that  loves  them. 
Gifts  such  as  these  have  won  her  the  almost  unri- 
valled place  which  she  holds  in  living  literature. 
There  is  hardl}'  a  woman's  heart  anywhere  in  the 
civilized  world  which  has  not  felt  tlie  vibration  of 
George  Sand's  thrilling  voice." 

"The  London  Saturday  Review  "  paid  this  tribute 
to  her  genius:  "In  France,  of  all  the  novel-writers 
of  the  last  twent}'  years,  the  most  instructive,  the 
most   genuine,    the    most   original,    is    George    Sand. 


X  JN  MEM  OR  J  AM. 

Her  best  works  remain,  and  will  long  remain,  among 
the  most  characteristic  and  the  most  splendid  monu- 
ments of  that  outpouring  of  French  literature,  the 
period  of  which  happened  to  be  exactl}*  conterminous 
with  the  duration  of  constitutional  government  in 
France."  Lastly,  her  own  country-man,  Edmond 
About,  termed  hers  "the  noblest  mind  of  our 
epoch." — N^ew  York  Tribune. 


At 


CONTENTS. 


■    ♦ 

CHAPTEE.  PAOa 

L    Winter  at  Home 1 


II,    The  State  of  my  Mind 16 

III.  Again  in  the  Woods 38 

IV.  Love 55 

V.  The  Philosophy  of  Punctuation         .       .  75 

VI.    Universal  Suffrage 87 

VII.    Spiritual  Belief 107 

VIII.    Death  in  Life 128 

IX.    The  Mind  in  Sleep 141 

X.  Some  Ideas  of  a  School-Teacher       .       .  ICO 

XI.    The  Poets  of  To-Day 185 

XII.  The  Revolution  for  an  Ideal     .        .        .198 

XIII.    Father  Hyacinthe 213 

xl 


xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTEB.  PAGE. 

XIV.    A  CtJEious  Book 221 

XV.  TnE  FOEEST  OF  FONTAIKEBLEAU   .    .    .  240 

XVI.     L'Angusta 257 

XVU.    BiiTWEEN  Two  Clouds 275 


AUTHOR'S    INTRODUCTION. 


1871. 
To  Charles  Edmond:  — 

I  ACKNOWLEDGE  that,  every  evening,  I  am  simple 
enough  to  record,  in  more  or  less  words,  the  events 
of  the  day ;  and  thfs  I  have  done  for  twenty  years. 
It  does  not  follow,  however,  that  this  journal  merits 
publication ;  and  I  doubt  if  even  a  few  of  its  pages 
would  be  worth  the  trouble. 

On  reviewing  it,  I  am  convinced  that  it  would  be 
principally  interesting  to  myself,  resembling,  as  it 
does,  a  journal  from  shipboard ;  for  we  live,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  country ;  and  this  life  is  similar  to 
that  on  a  ship  that  is  lying-to. 

Nevertheless,  since  you  urge  it,  I  will  make  the 
attempt,  on  condition  that  you  will  stop  me  as  soon  as 
it  becomes  tiresome  or  childish  ;  but  I  ask  permission 
to  fish  at  will  in  those  mysterious  waters  which  have 
swallowed  so  many  objects  without  leaving  any  distinct 
trace  of  their  existence.  I  am  fond  of  fiction,  and 
willingly  resign  to  it  my  personality.     It   does    not, 

zUi 


XIV  AUTHOR'S    INTRODUCTION. 

however,  occupy  my  whole  time ;  and  I  waste  a  lai^e 
portion  in  revery,  without  a  thought  which  could  be 
made  practical  or  manifest.  I  should  hardly  know 
how  to  describe  this  kind  of  internal  action,  to  whic  i 
every  one  yields  in  his  own  waj'',  and  which  is  infin- 
itely varied  according  to  one's  temperament,  charac- 
ter, 3'ears,  and  surroundings.  Perhaps,  in  this  sense, 
certain  pages  of  this  journal  may  have  the  value  of  a 
study  which  each  one  can  pursue  for  himself. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  confine  myself  to  a 
systematic  course ;  for  to  connect  logically,  daj''  by 
da}',  twenty  years  of  m,y  life,  would  be  the  labor  of 
twenty  years  more ;  and  I  have  too  many  things  to 
see  and  understand,  —  I,  who  am  not  quick  at  com- 
prehension, —  to  devote  the  now  rather  limited  term 
of  my  life  to  the  knowledge  and  understanding  of 
myself.  When  these  loose  pages  form  the  leaves  of  a 
book,  it  will  be  the  result  of  some  slight  desire  that  I 
have  felt  to  promulgate  an  idea. 


IMPRESSIONS  Am  REMfflSCENCES. 


CHAPTER  L 

WINTER   AT   HOME. 


Jan.  23,  1863,  5.30,  p.m. 

THE  sunset  sky  behind  the  dark  yet  well- 
defined  network  of  the  tall  and  leafless 
linden-trees  is  of  an  orange  red.  The  moon  is 
almost  at  the  zenith,  and  presents  the  dim  out- 
line of  three  quarters.  One  edge  is  distinctly 
visible :  the  other  is  lost,  as  it  were,  in  the  foggy 
distance.  In  the  little  visual  field  presented  by 
this  star  are  hundi-eds  of  leagues  of  perspective. 
How  small  a  proportion  of  space  is  occupied  by  a 
world  I 

The  constellation  of  Orion,  brilliant  as  the 
diamond,  is  rising  behind  the  moon,  in  the  cold 
blue  sky  ;  and,  lower  down,  Siriiis  sheds  its  white 
quivering  light  over  the  summit  of  the  trees  in 

the  garden.     The   shadow  thrown   by  the   pinea 

1 


2  IMPBESaiONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

upon  the  gravel  is  clear  and  steadfast.  Are  tlie 
violets  in  blossom  ?  I  have  not  seen  any,  but  the 
fresh  air  is  impregnated  with  their  odor. 

How  charming  is  this  winter  I  From  my  open 
window  I  behold  on  my  right  hand  the  dying 
rays  of  the  sunset,  and  on  my  left  the  solemn 
approach  of  night.  The  air  is  not  cold ;  and, 
were  it  not  for  the  position  of  the  stars,  one 
might  fancy  that  it  were  April.  But  no  !  This 
lovely  silence  is  not  the  imprudent  announcement 
of  spring.  It  is  so  profound  that  I  dare  not 
move,  for  fear  of  disturbing  it.  I  would  take  a 
walk  before  dinner,  but  I  might  cause  some 
derangement  in  nature  :  besides,  I  should  hear  my 
own  footsteps  ;  the  charm  would  be  broken. 

I  have  spent  half  an  hour  in  this  silent  contem- 
plation, mechanically  holding  my  breath  in  the 
surrounding  quiet.  ]\Iy  life  seemed,  as  it  were, 
suspended  without  and  within.  I  could  think 
only  of  those  violets  which  lie  concealed  by  day, 
but  betray  themselves  at  night  by  their  subtle 
perfume.  They  need  not  fear :  I  will  not  attempt 
to  gather  them. 

The  dinner-bell  has  just  rung.  There  was 
nothing  sharp  or  clamorous  in  its  sound,  but  it 
set  the  dog  to  barking.     The  dog  is  a  timid,  sus- 


NATURE'S  PICTURES.  3 

picious  being,  full  of  visions  and  terrors,  uttering 
cries  of  distress  without  any  apparent  cause.  The 
moon  on  the  horizon  drives  liim  to  despair.  He 
pays  no  attention  to  the  white  stars,  but  has  an 
evident  aversion  to  the  red  planets.  No  doubt 
he  has  perceptions  of  which  we  are  unconscious. 
White  walls  frighten  him  at  twilight.  He  is  the 
dupe  of  shadows,  and  constant!}^  tormented  by 
fancies.  This  is  the  effect  of  a  vivid  imagination, 
without  the  capacity  for  visual  enjoyment. 

Midnight.  —  A has    just    raised   a    scene, 

because  I  risked  taking  cold  at  the  open  window. 
This  excellent  man  cannot  understand  that  it  is 
better  to  have  a  cold  in  his  head  than  to  deprive 
his  soul  of  a  sublime  joy.  I  try  in  vain  to  describe 
to  him  this  quiet  enjoyment  arising  from  contem- 
plation. He  is  enraged  at  logic,  and  begs  for 
words  that  define  ;  but  I  can  find  none  to  define 
60  vague  a  feeling. 

Nevertheless  I  try  to  answer  his  questions. 

"  Does  it  require  half  an  hour  to  behold  one  of 
Nature's  pictures  ?  Does  not  the  picture  change 
every  second  during  that  half-hour  ?  " 

"  It  is  tliis  very  change,  rapid  yet  impercepti- 
ble, that  I  like  to  watch." 

"  What  good  does  it  do  you  ?     This  change  is 


4  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  despair  of  painters,  who  may  seek  in  vain  to 
fix  the  effect." 

"  I  find  enjoyment  where  the  painter  finds 
despair.  I  behold  a  scene  always  fresh,  and  not 
subject  to  the  merciless  and  uncertain  law  of 
solution." 

"  But  that  does  not  serve  art.  You  cannot 
portray  a  position  which  is  constantly  changing. 
You  are  forced  to  seize  it  at  a  given  moment, 
or  to  reproduce  merely  its  principal  phases." 

"  That  is  very  true ;  but  I  have  never  thought 
of  attempting  a  description.  Such  things  do  not 
take  so  strong  a  hold  on  our  feelings  at  the 
moment  as  afterwards,  —  that  is,  provided  they 
have  made  a  deep  impression ;  but  the  most 
thorough  appreciation  does  not  need  to  be  com- 
municated." 

"  That  is  to  say,  that  what  you  feel  most 
ardently  you  do  not  commit  to  writing  ?  " 

"I  believe  so." 

"  For  my  part,  I  see  nothing  when  I  am  alone. 
I  do  not  look." 

"  You  do  not  care  to  see  ?  " 

"  Precisely.  It  would  make  me  sorrowful.  I 
should  begin  to  cry  perhaps,  like  the  dog,  whose 
neives  are  irritated  by  the  moon.     I  must  feel 


THE  BLOOM   ON   THE  FRUIT.  5 

human  life  around  me,  the  life  of  my  own  species : 
that  of  beings  with  whom  I  cannot  hold  com- 
munion awakens  within  me  an  indifference,  almost 
an  antipathy.    With  you,  then,  it  is  the  reverse  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  an  answer." 

"  If  my  answer  must  give  rise  to  a  discussion, 
I  prefer  to  remain  silent,  and  leave  you  to  infer 
that  I  possess  a  grain  of  folly.  The  discussion  of 
certain  internal  and  self-gratifying  perceptions 
resembles  profanation.  What  would  you  think 
of  a  painter,  who,  to  make  a  more  exact  copy  of 
the  color  of  a  plum,  should  wipe  away  the  bloom 
which  covers  it?  There  is  a  bloom  cast  over 
certain  impressions.  It  is  like  a  veil  of  freshness, 
which  I  do  not  like  to  disturb." 

He  retired,  saying  that  he  respected  my  fancy, 
but  should  never  understand  it.  He  would  like, 
artist  that  he  is  in  another  sense,  to  pursue  the 
normal  and  rational  course.  I  believe  that  he  is 
attempting  an  impossibility.  Every  one  must 
take  his  own  course.  There  are  artists,  though, 
who  have  none ;  and  I  am,  perhaps,  of  that  class. 
Whether  it  be  an  advantage  or  infirmily,  1  know 
not ;  but,  having  found  infinite  joys  in  my  mode 
of  perception,  I  confess  that  I  should  be  unwill- 
ing to  lose  them. 


6  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

A  friend  who  talks  with  me  sometimes,  on  this 
subject,  assures  me  that  the  analysis  of  my  in- 
most self  would  n(tt  deprive  me  of  those  joys 
which  he  calls  mysterious,  because,  he  says,  I 
make  myself  a  mystery  to  myself.  He  believes 
that  a  pleasure  is  appreciated  according  as  we 
know  in  what  it  consists.  But  this  pleasure  is 
not  at  my  disposal.  I  can  seat  mj'self  at  the 
window,  some  splendid  night,  to  notice  the  distri- 
bution of  light  and  shade,  to  discover  what  con- 
stitutes the  beauty  of  the  hour  and  the  place,  to 
listen  to  the  song  of  the  nocturnal  bird ;  in  short, 
to  witness  the  little  wonders  of  the  outward 
world,  without  identifying  myself  with  them. 
My  individual  self,  then,  lives  its  own  life,  which 
is  not  one  perpetual  enchantment,  since  it  is  sub- 
ject to  a  round  of  duties  and  obligations  in  which 
I  have  no  right  to  seek  my  own  gratification  at 
the  expense  of  that  of  others.  Those  moments 
when,  transported  and  borne  beyond  myself  by 
the  power  of  external  objects,  I  can  withdraw 
myself  from  the  life  of  my  fellow  -  creatures, 
are  entirely  casual ;  and  it  is  not  always  in  my 
power  to  transfer  my  mind  into  other  beings  than 
myself.  When  this  phenomenon  is  produced 
spontaneously,  I  cannot   tell  whether  I  am  pre- 


TRANSPCRTED  BEYOND   SELF.  7 

pared  for  it  by  any  particular  circumstance,  psy- 
chological or  physiological.  Most  surely  there 
must  be  an  absence  of  all  absorbing  thoughts. 
The  least  cause  for  solicitude  banishes  this  kind 
of  internal  ecstasy,  which  is,  as  it  were,  an  invol- 
untary oblivion,  unforeseen  by  my  own  vitality. 

Surely  every  one  has  experienced  something 
of  this  kind ;  but  I  should  like  to  meet  with  a 
person  who  could  say  to  me,  "  I  have  experienced 
it  in  the  same  manner.  There  are  hours  when  I 
withdi-aw  from  myself,  when  I  live  in  a  planet, 
when  I  feel  myself  grass,  a  bird,  the  top  of  a 
tree,  a  cloud,  running  water,  the  horizon,  color, 
form  and  sensations  wavering,  variable,  indefi- 
nite ;  hours  when  I  run,  I  fly,  I  swim,  I  sip  the 
dew,  I  expand  in  the  sunlight,  I  sleep  beneath 
the  leaves,  I  soar  with  the  lark,  I  crawl  with  the 
lizard,  I  shine  with  the  stars,  and  glow  with  the 
brilliant  verse ;  when,  in  short,  I  gain  an  insight 
into  the  midst  of  a  development  which  is  like  a 
dilation  of  my  own  being." 

I  have  never  met  this  individual ;  at  least,  not  to 
my  knowledge.  If  I  had,  I  should  not  have  dared 
to  question  him,  not  always  liking  to  be  questioned 
myself.  We  may  walk  every  day  by  the  side  of 
our  translator  without  suspecting  it,  or  witliout 
feeling  disposed  to  deliver  him  our  text. 


8  IMPRESSIONS   AND   RKMINISCENGES. 

Nevertheless  it  would  have  given  me  pleasure 
to  meet  such  an  one,  on  condition  that  he  were 
more  learned  than  I,  and  could  have  told  me 
whether  these  phenomena  are  the  result  of  a 
certain  condition  of  the  body,  or  the  mind ;  if  it 
is  the  instinct  of  that  universal  life  which  physi- 
cally asserts  its  rights  over  the  individual,  or  if  it 
is  a  higher  relationship,  an  intellectual  relationship 
with  the  soul  of  the  universe,  which  is  revealed 
to  that  individual  who  is  delivered,  at  certain 
hours,  from  the  bonds  of  personality.  It  is  my 
opinion  that  it  partakes  of  both,  that  it  cannot  be 
otherwise.  I  should  be  afraid  of  a  medical  ex- 
planation, which  would  inform  me  that  this  sort  of 
hallucination  was  owing  exclusively  to  the  circu- 
lation of  the  blood,  and  might  be  accounted  for  by 
an  attack  of  fever.  I  cannot  say  what  things  the 
learned  do  know,  but  I  can  say  very  well  what 
things  they  do  not  know. 

Whatever  it  be,  there  is  within  the  human  being 
a  double  mechanism  of  action  and  re-action,  the 
operation  of  wliicli  it  would  be  curious  to  be  able 
to  observe  ;  but  it  baffles  investigation,  even  in 
one's  own  self.  I  have  never  read  .nor  heard  of 
any  thing  satisfactory  concerning  the  correlation 
of  the  thought  that  conceives  its  object,  with  the 


INTELLECTUAL  FOOD.  9 

object  conceived.  He  who  would  explain  it 
ignores  that  part  of  his  mechanism  which  is  not 
that  of  another,  and  asserts  the  peculiar  opera- 
tions of  his  own  mind,  without  questioning 
whether  these  do  not  differ  in  the  multitude  of 
infinitely  diversified  organizations,  whether  even 
in  the  same  indi\ddual  they  do  not  vary  every 
day.  How  does  it  happen  that  the  food  which  we 
relished  yesterday  becomes  distasteful  to-day? 
So  it  is  with  all  intellectual  food.  Both  it  and  we 
are  subject  to  changeu 

On  reflection  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
—  this  is  the  hour  for  lucid  recapitulation,  in 
summer  especially,  just  at  the  dawn  of  day  and 
the  awakening  of  things  in  general,  —  the  prob- 
lem which  tormented    A last  evening,  and, 

I  must  confess,  puzzled  me  a  little,  seems  quite 
simple.  We  are  not  abstract  beings  ;  and,  more- 
over, there  is  nothing  abstract  in  our  composition. 
Our  existence  feeds  on  its  surroundings,  —  air, 
heat,  moisture,  light,  electricity,  the  vitality  of 
others,  and  influences  of  all  sorts.  These  influ- 
ences are  necessary  for  the  expansion  of  our 
lives ;  they  are  ourselves  while  life  endures.  We 
are  earth  and  sky,  cloud  and  dust ;  neither  angels 
nor  beasts,  but  a  product  of  tlie   two,  with  the 


10  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

tliought  of  one  and  the  instinct  of  the  other 
rendered  more  intense.  We  are  not  creatures  so 
wrapped  up  in  the  ideal  as  to  lose  all  wiU  and ' 
freedom ;  neither  are  we  creatiu^es  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  concern  for  the  preservation  of  our 
species,  or  submissive  to  an  unalterable  course. 

But  our  direct  and  intimate  relationship  with 
the  spiritual  and  the  animal  becomes  apparent 
to  us  in  proportion  to  the  exertions  which  we 
make  to  belong  to  ourselves.  We  study  the 
spiritual,  that  is,  the  serene  and  divine  portion 
of  the  universal  soul.  We  observe  the  animal, 
which  comprises  also  the  plant,  a  being  without 
apparent  locomotion.  And,  by  giving  our  ear- 
nest attention  to  this  examination,  we  are  brought 
to  feel  the  power  still  exercised  over  us  by  our 
manifold  generators,  beings  or  bodies.  I  am  not 
dreaming,  then,  when,  standing  before  a  great 
edifice  of  rocks,  I  feel  that  these  mighty  bones 
of  the  earth  are  mine,  and  that  the  calmness  of 
my  mind  partakes  of  their  apparent  death  and 
their  dramatic  immobihty.  The  moon  consumes 
the  stones,  so  says  the  peasant.  I  maintain  that 
they  diink  the'  cold  light  of  the  moon,  but 
undergo  a  silent  disintegration  during  the  night 
from  having  been  subjected  to  the  wasting  action 


LIFE  AND  DEATH.  11 

of  the  sun.  I  think  of  the  hidden  work  going 
on  in  their  molecules,  and  I  feel  inclined  to  attrib- 
ute to  them  an  existence  similar  to  my  own.  I, 
too,  am  a  stone,  which  time  disintegrates ;  and 
the  tranquillity  of  these  blocks,  whose  sole  func- 
tion is  to  submit  to  the  action  of  day  and  night, 
deeply  impresses  me,  calms  me,  and  benumbs  my 
vitality.  Why  include  in  the  daily  task  so  much 
that  is  useless  ?  Eternal  destruction,  which,  in 
another  form,  presides  over  reconstruction,  is 
more  active,  since  it  is  uninterrupted,  than  my 
fettered  will  can  ever  be.  To  die  is  not  to 
become  dead,  but  to  serve  in  a  new  formation. 
It  is  merely  a  change  of  action ;  and  if  action 
continues  in  the  stone,  that  apparent  embodiment 
of  insensibility  and  death,  why  distress  myself 
at  the  inevitable  transfer  of  my  patience  into  an 
inert  patience  ?  Suppose  that  I  have  no  soul,  — 
that  is  to  say,  that  no  vitahty  capable  of  recon- 
structing the  human  condition  survives  me :  I  am 
sure  of  leaving  my  stone  upon  the  sand,  a  passive 
bone  whicli  will  be  transformed,  through  natural 
influences,  into  some  element  of  vitality.  If  the 
stone  which  has  contributed  in  the  formation  of 
my  bones,  by  furnishing  the  calcareous  proper- 
ties  which    arc    the  foundation    of    my   human 


12  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

frame,  is  an  ancestor  that  I  cannot  disown,  that 
I  regard  with  a  certain  respect,  poetical  and 
rational,  the  plant,  which  is  an  organism  decid- 
edly my  predecessor  upon  the  earth,  has  a  right 
to  my  admiration ;  not  merely  by  its  grace  and 
beauty,  but  by  the  part  that  it  performs  in  my 
existence.  To  a  certain  point,  it  lives  a  life 
analogous  to  mine.  It  has  no  voluntary  motion, 
but,  acting  through  its  growth,  reaches  the  same 
end  by  a  process  which  is  at  once  motion  and 
production.  If  it  needs  a  more  propitious  soil, 
a  greater  or  less  degree  of  light,  it  forms,  from 
its  own  substance,  branches,  tendrils,  or  strong 
roots ;  securing,  at  the  same  time,  the  means  and 
the  end. 

It  escapes  death  by  a  sort  of  suicide.  The  sap 
abandons  the  suffering  stem,  flowing  to  another 
part  of  the  plant,  where  it  throws  out  new  shoots. 
The  roots  will  not  lay  aside  their  work  to  help 
the  germ,  until  they  have  attained  a  favorable 
position.  What  more  beautiful  manifestation  of 
vitality?  When  tve  lose  a  member,  we  lose  also 
the  action  of  that  member.  The  vegetable  makes, 
for  itself  a  new  member,  which  progresses  as  it 
forms :  still  more,  it  creates  a  new  body,  and 
transports  its  whole  life  to  some  other  spot.     We 


THE  POWER   OF  BEINGS.  13 

ought  not,  then,  to  despise  it  on  account  of  its 
inertia.  To  change  its  position,  it  exerts  the 
most  vigorous  effort  conceivable. 

The  power  of  beings  impresses  you,  then ;  and 
you  cannot  observe  them  without  admiring  them. 
Admiration  is  one  form  of  affection.  Esrotism 
seeks  what  gives  it  pleasure.  It  is  plain,  then, 
that  by  entering,  through  observation,  into  the 
life  of  the  plant,  we  feel  so  much  more  the  force 
and  sohdity  of  life  universal.  Does  not  the  per- 
fume of  flowers  penetrate  our  mind,  as  well  as 
our  bodily  organ  ?  Is  it  a  purely  physical  gratifi- 
cation ?  Do  we  not  closely  associate  it  with  ideas 
of  purity  and  poetry,  with  an  elevated  perception 
of  nature  and  of  life  ? 

If  we  extend  our  observations  to  the  more  com- 
plete life  of  those  beings  which  people  our  midst, 
to  all  animals,  large  or  small,  noisy  or  mysterious, 
that,  from  the  lowest  depths  of  the  earth  to  the 
summit  of  the  loftiest  trees  and  the  region  of  air, 
live  and  move,  we  are  amazed  at  the  diversity  of 
their  functions.  All  are  admirably  ingenious; 
and,  as  all  these  things  are  beautiful  or  interest- 
ing in  their  mode  of  existence,  we  are  involun- 
tarily transported  into  that  existence,  which 
apparently  withdraws  us  from  the  perception  of 


14  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

our  own,  but  in  reality  strengthens  and  completes 
it.  Who  has  not  longed  for  the  wings  of  a  bird  ? 
I  would  be  modest  enough  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
feet  of  the  hare,  or  the  comparatively  immense 
bounds  of  the  grasshopper.  I  take  an  interest, 
too,  in  the  little,  hidden  existence  of  the  field- 
cricket,  whose  apartment  is  so  warm,  so  neat,  and 
its  harlequin  mask  so  serious,  so  comic.  It  holds 
a  tambourine  under  its  wings,  and  seems  as  happy 
as  a  savage,  with  its  constant  repetition  of  the 
same  note.  What  gayety,  what  madness,  is  dis- 
played at  evening,  in  a  flowery  meadow,  when  all 
the  insects  of  the  field,  in  a  feeling  of  security 
derived  from  the  absence  of  man,  noisily  mingle 
their  various  dialects  in  a  general  conversation  ! 
Do  we  not  feel  like  stopping  to  listen,  for  want 
of  being  able  to  join  in  their  demonstrations  ? 
But,  as  to  describe  that  incessant  and  prohfic 
action  which  constitutes  the  cliarm  of  nature 
would  require  more  time  than  to  feel  and  appre- 
ciate it,  I  shall  venture  to  tell  A to-morrow, 

that  literary  descriptions  are  but  poor  expressions 
of  the  half  of  what  we  feel,  and  that  there  is 
more  pleasure  in  sitting  still  than  in  writing. 

A  pleasure,  however,  which  must  have  its  Umi- 
tations,  not  only  from  fear  of  taking  cold,  but 


TO-MORROW.  15 

because  the  duties  of  life  —  I  must  retire  now. 
This  is  not  the  hour  to  be  burdened  with  human 
cares.  To-morrow  will  bring  its  task,  and  I  shall 
need  sleep.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  so 
occupied  with  the  cares  of  life  that  I  shall  not 
heed  the  insects  as  they  fly,  the  flowers  as  they 
grow,  or  the  clouds  as  they  pass. 

July,  1871. 
To  speak  frankly,  was  the  foregoing  worth  the 
trouble  of  writing  it  ?  It  is  in  reality  metaphys- 
ics for  the  use  of  poets  ;  but,  as  it  is  not  reduced 
to  the  language  of  metaphj^sicians,  they  are  the 
very  ones  who  will  understand  it  least.  The 
poets  wiU  find  it  either  too  realistic  or  too  ideal- 
istic.  Many  things,  I  think,  may  be  Avritten,  as 
they  occur,  for  our  own  perusal ;  but,  if  we  are 
invited  to  puljlish  them,  all  we  can  do  is  to  sur- 
render them  to  the  critic  without  giving  a  thought 
to  their  defence,  and  dedicate  them  to  those  who, 
with  ingenuity,  are  puzzling  out  the  enigma  of 
life,  without  priding  themselves  on  having  found 
the  solution. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STATE   OF  MY  JVUND. 

Paris,  March,  1876. 

r'f'lHESE  good  old  friends  ask  me  in  luhat  state 
-L  is  my  mind?  If  they  conld  read  it  at  all 
hours,  they  would  perhaps  find  that  it  is  in  a 
state  of  grace,  as  the  Catholics  say.  /  should  say 
that  it  is  in  no  particular  state.  It  has  entered, 
long  ago,  that  road  where  accidents  and  dangers 
prevent  a  return.  I  am  thought  too  indulgent 
towards  the  affairs  and  the  people  of  these  times. 
I  am  not  as  indulgent  as  is  believed,  but  have 
acquired  only  such  an  amount  of  patience  as  I 
found  necessary  :  that  is  all.  After  having  passed 
judgment,  I  have  no  desire  to  punish  what  I  con- 
demn :  I  prefer  to  forget  it.  Is  this  lassitude,  or 
nonchalance  ?  Perhaps  it  savors  of  disgust. 
They  say  that  I  am  not  suited  to  the  present 
times  ;  that  I  must  suffer  from  the  change  that  has 
taken  place,  within  the  last  ten  years,  in  the  prog- 

1R 


THE  FRENCH  NATION.  17 

ress  of  ideas.  What  does  one  not  suffer  in  the 
contemplation  of  reality  ?  But  we  should  never 
yield  to  a  fruitless  sorrow.  Reflection,  after 
laying  us  low,  ought  to  raise  us  again.  They 
avow  that  reflection  saddens  them ;  but  let  them 
reflect  still  more,  and  they  will  experience  that  , 
slight  internal  joy,  which  prompts  them  to  say,  "  I 
taste  what  is  good  and  true  in  life  ;  I  have  no 
relish  for  what  is  false  and  poisonous.  Now  that 
I  am  able  to  discern  the  true^  nothing  can  prevent 
me  from  making  it  a  means  of  sustenance." 

I  call  it  a  slight  joy,  because  every  joy  which  is 
exclusively  our  own  is  incomplete.  There  is  no 
true  happiness  of  a  small  number.  The  happiness 
of  all  is  necessary  as  a  corollary  to  domestic  hap- 
piness. It  is  essential,  too,  for  the  security  of 
existence.  Ah,  well !  the  security  of  the  future. 
That  future  is  dark.  That  coup  d'etat^  which, 
in  the  hands  of  a  truly  logical  man,  might  have 
aroused  within  us  a  feeling  of  submission,  or  of 
revolt  in  the  way  of  progress,  has  only  brought 
us  to  a  subsidence  tumultuous  at  the  surface, 
rotten  below.  The  Frenchman  likes  to  live  fast: 
he  takes  little  thought  for  the  future,  and  forgets 
tlie  past.  What  he  wants  is  intensity  of  emotion 
for  each  day.    Furnish  him  with  emotion  of  what- 


18  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

ever  kind,  he  swallows  it.  Whether  the  wine  be 
pure  or  adulterated,  he  drinks,  and  becomes  intoxi- 
cated. If  he  is  deprived  of  the  conditions  of  a 
normal  life,  he  enters  upon  a  factitious  one ;  and, 
the  more  uncongenial  it  is,  the  more  tenacious  is 
his  hold.  In  times  of  revolution  he  is  inordi- 
nately excited,  and,  in  his  efforts  to  reach  the 
light,  is  precipitated  into  darkness.  In  times  of 
peace,  he  wastes  no  thought  on  what  has  so 
recently  stirred  up  his  feelings,  but  gives  himself 
up  to  etiolation.  Slow  suicide  constitutes,  with 
him,  one  manner  of  life.  Many  young  people  of 
to-day  acknowledge,  without  shame,  that  they 
have  accepted  the  role  of  representatives  of  deca- 
dence; they  even  feel  it  the  part  of  courage  to 
make  this  assertion.  And  this  is  the  French 
nation,  the  very  first  in  the  world  though.  They 
are  warned  of  their  approaching  end ;  and  all  the 
reply  that  they  offer  is,  that  they  are  ready  to 
march  gayly  to  the  tomb,  preferring  to  perish 
rather  than  reflect. 

They  are  in  a  fatal  current.  '48  was  for  them 
an  infatuation  and  a  deception.  "  Let  them 
restore  to  us,"  said  the  people,  "the  intoxication 
of  pleasure,  the  easy  life,  the  means  of  enriching 
ourselves,   and  the   freedom   of    self-destruction ; 


THE  SOCIAL   CLASSES.  19 

let  them  give  us  food  for  our  desires,  since  a  desire 
for  the  public  welfare  has  led  merely  to  the  abor- 
tion of  our  aspirations.  Let  us  amuse  ourselves, 
let  us  strive  for  that  luxury  which  enriches  the 
laborer,  and  ruins  the  capitalist,  thus  levelling  all 
conditions.  What,  in  the  main,  is  most  demo- 
cratic, is  the  prodigality  of  the  rich." 

By  this  specious  reasoning,  in  which  the  majori- 
ty of  the  nation  dehght,  the  social  classes  have 
been,  for  the  last  ten  years,  approaching  a  decora- 
position  very  curious  to  observe.  They  still  con- 
tinue to  make  use  of  the  old  words,  without 
perceiving  that  they  no  longer  express  the  same 
meaning.  What  is  the  present  signification  of 
noblesse,  bourgeoisie,  proletariat  ?  They  designate 
three  classes  no  longer  existing  in  the  same  con- 
dition as  under  the  reign  of  Louis  Philijipe, — 
three  classes  so  transformed,  that,  if  a  man  who 
had  been  'dead  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years  were  to 
return  to  life,  he  would  fail  to  recognize  them. 

Wliat  has  become  of  that  good  Parisian  bour- 
geois, whose  tame  solid  existence  Balzac  under- 
stood so  well,  and  knew  how  to  idealize?  And 
that  other,  the  provincial  bourgeois,  who  afforded 
us  such  amusement  when  we  were  young  artists, 
and  who  had  such  a  strong  affinity  for  the  Parisian 


20  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

shopkeeper,  —  we  called  him  then  a  mollusk. 
There  was,  at  that  time,  a  considerable  number 
of  moUusks  in  France,  whom  we  compared  to 
those  calcareous  chains  of  petrified  infusoria,  of 
which  our  soil  is  largely  composed,  and  which 
make  up  many  of  our  principal  geographical 
features.  These  elements  of  resistance  to  the 
modifications  of  the  surface  were  of  serious 
importance.  As  agriculturists  or  manufacturers, 
they  held  a  decided  influence  over  the  people, 
feigning,  at  least,  to  join  in  the  common  cause. 
King  Louis  Philipp^  understood  this,  and  made 
the  bourgeoisie  the  base  of  his  edifice. 

One  fine  day  it  crumbled.  He  did  not  foresee, 
that  by  becoming  too  predominant  it  would  dis- 
solve. So  the  Revolution  of  February  did  not 
find  that  haughty  and  stubborn  class  which  it 
expected  to  oppose.  The  bourgeoisie  had  made  its 
fortune,  and  cared  no  longer  for  revolutions.  Its 
role  of  1830  was  finished.  It  had  no  longer  any 
fixed  rules  of  government,  possessed  no  j)hiloso- 
phy,  no  spirit  of  caste,  and  no  longer  clung 
together.  By  trying  to  grasp  too  much,  it  had 
lost  every  thing.  '89,  although  constantly  men- 
tioned, became  incomprehensible.  Enriched  by 
this  first  Revolution,  it  had  grown  to  be  aristo- 


UNDER   THE  EMPIRE.  21 

cratic,  eager  for  honors  and  titles,  but  devout  and 
ivell-disposed.,  as  it  was  termed  by  those  in  high 
position,  under  the  Restoration.  This  entire 
change  having  removed  all  necessity  for  its  exist- 
ence, it  became  extinct,  —  that  famous  party 
which  had  wished  to  be  all  in  all,  but  only  suc- 
ceeded in  forming  one  element  mingled  with 
others  composing  the  wealthy  and  moderately 
wealthy  classes. 

This  morbid  vanity  has  become  a  dangerous 
malady  under  the  Empire.  The  bourgeoisie^  who 
ought  to  have  felt  flattered  by  having  a  parvenu 
upon  the  throne,  —  for  so  the  Emperor  maliciously 
styles  himself,  — now  does  not  wish  to  be  parvenu. 
It  seeks  for  ancestors,  and  assumes  titles,  or,  to 
say  the  least,  a  prefix,  and  thinks  this  gentility. 
It  is  not  only  pious :  it  professes  to  be  clerical. 
Our  foolish  provincial  women  make  an  ostenta- 
tion of  their  charity,  which  likens  them  to  the 
ladies  of  those  times  when  they,  the  bourgeoises^ 
were  called  mademoiselle^  although  married. 
They  form  themselves  into  a  propaganda  of  noble 
women  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  schools  to 
be  kept  by  sisters  of  charity.  Whether  kneeling 
in  churclics,  or  marching  in  processions  by  the 
side  of  titled  ladies,  they  never  think  of  invoking 


22  IMPRESSIONS   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

holy  equality  before  God,  but  only  of  the  effect 
that  they  are  producing  on  their  vexed  and  insig- 
nificant fellow-citizens,  as  they  file  along  on  an 
equality  with  the  countesses. 

This  stupid  pride  had  its  origin  in  the  former 
reign.  The  husbands  laughed  at  it,  but  did  not 
interfere,  taking  a  malicious  pride  in  seeing  their 
daughters,  and  sometimes  their  wives,  courted  by 
the  gentlemen  in  the  neighborhood.  Under  the 
Empire  they  feel  themselves  gentlemen.  They  have 
no  longer  to  struggle  against  the  conquered,  but 
to  raise  them  with  a  fraternal  embrace.  Although 
a  parvenu.)  the  Emperor  has  caused  to  be  published 
a  genealogy  of  the  young  Countess  de  Teba,  tra- 
cing back  her  nobility  to  the  Cid  of  Andalusia. 
It  was  not  enough  that  Mile.  Montijo  was  beauti- 
ful and  charming :  she  must  also  have  ancestors, 
to  satisfy  this  monarch  who  boasts  of  having  none 
himself. 

Let  us  now  consider  this  young  empress  ;  for 
she  holds  an  important  position.  She  brings  with 
her  the  little  Spanish  arts,  a  taste  for  strong  emo- 
tions, regret  at  leaving  the  bull-fight,  not  to  say 
the  autos-da-fe  ;  plays  with  her  fan,  exhibits  a  pas- 
sion for  dress,  powders  her  hair  with  gold-dust, 
has  a  tapering  waist;   in  short,  possesses   every 


THE  EMPRESS  EUGENIE.  23 

attraction,  including  that  of  goodness,  which  could 
appeal  to  the  imagination,  the  senses,  or  the  heart. 
All  the  men  are  in  love  with  her ;  and  those  who 
cannot  aspire  to  the  slightest  amount  of  favor  try 
to  make  of  their  wives  empresses  in  common  life. 
These  good  women  do  their  best  to  imitate  the 
beautiful  Eugenie.     They  powder  their  hair,  both 
real  and  artificial,  with  gold  or  with  brass ;  they 
paint  their  cheeks,  and  have  slender  waists  and 
small  feet.     The  time  has  passed  when  the  nation 
could  be  jecognized  by  their  feet.     The  nobility 
has  been  mixed  up  with  so  many  alliances,  legiti- 
mate or  illegitimate,  that  they  do  not  descend  by 
families  and  kinds,  but  by  simple  varieties  of  the 
same  species.     Besides,  a  life  of  refinement  estab- 
lishes new  sm-roun dings,  which  modify  the  organi- 
zations.     And,   then,  there   is   Darwin's   law  of 
selection.      Any    individual    more    distinguished 
than  the  others  will  do  for  the  founder  of  a  family. 
So  the  grandraotlier  who  wore  wooden  shoes  had 
a  daughter  who  wore  leather  ones  ;  and  now  the 
granddaughter  wears  slippers  with  heels.     If  the 
Cliinese  fashion  of  cramping  the  foot  were  to  be 
introduced  into  France,  every  one  would  conform 
to  it;  and  they  will  liardly  stop  short  of  that  folly. 
And   80   this   infatuation   has   seized   all   theso 


24  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

good  and  beautiful  creatures,  who  might  have 
remained  such  true  and  charming  women,  and 
brought  up  their  children  to  respect  their  ances- 
tors, mechanics  or  laborers.  But  they  willingly 
accept  the  condition  of  animals,  if  they  may  only 
gaze  upon  their  brilliant  sovereign.  She,  in  her 
turn,  laughs  at  their  folly,  and,  becoming  dis- 
gusted with  her  finery  because  they  have  copied 
it,  invents  some  change,  which  makes  the  hus- 
bands a  fresh  expense. 

This  is  said  to  be  a  benefit  to  commerce.  By 
no  means.  Such  a  step  is  too  abnormal  not  to 
engender  ruin.  The  fashions  changing  every 
month  by  a  decree  of  court,  the  goods  not  dis- 
posed of  encumber  the  factories,  or  else  suddenly 
fall  in  price.  The  effect  of  this  is  felt  by  the 
retailers.  There  is  not  a  store  where  you  could 
not  buy  the  luxuries  of  the  preceding  year  at 
half  price.  Merchants  used  to  rely  on  country 
sales ;  but  now  look  at  the  c/risettes,  even  of  the 
small  towns,  and  the  peasants  who  are  choosing 
a  trousseau  for  their  young  people!  They  can 
go  very  quickly  to  Paris  for  information,  now 
that  railways  have  done  away  with  all  local 
obstacles.  In  the  same  manner,  the  thirst  for 
enjoyment  has  destroyed  the  elements  of  aristoc- 


HISTORICAL   FATALITIES.  25 

racj ;  and  whoever  makes  money  becomes  pol- 
ished, free  to  do  as  he  likes. 

There  is  now  no  bourgeoisie.  This  death,  with 
that  of  its  elder  sister  nobility,  has  been  added 
to  the  record  of  historical  mortalities.  There 
remain  but  two  classes :  one  consumes,  the  other 
produces  ;  one  is  rich,  or  moderately  so,  the  other 
is  poor  or  miserable.     "What  will  be  their  end? 

The  rich  class  are  joyously  hurr3ing  on  toward 
catastrophes,  inevitable  historical  fatalities,  the 
nature  of  which  I  would  not  undertake  to  pre- 
dict. Will  they  be  overturned  by  some  new  order 
of  the  party  bearing  another  name?  The  best 
prediction  is,  that  time  will  open  their  eyes,  and 
show  them  upon  what  volcanoes  they  are  enjoy- 
ing their  dance.  If  they  will  but  consider  how 
fragile  is  the  toy  which  serves  them  for  a  sceptre ; 
if,  warned  by  the  rumbling  from  tlie  abyss,  they 
will  renounce  their  vanities  and  vices,  — they  may 
yet  find  the  means  of  coalescing  with  the  people, 
before  a  final  struggle  puts  it  beyond  *heir  power. 
If  not  —  ah  I  what  will  become  of  them,  —  Byzan- 
tinism  or  middle  age? 

Let  us  now  consider  the  common  people.  These 
form  a  rt^thcr  mysterious  and  more  complicated 
class.      Popular    fancies  —  seldom    realized  —  do 


26  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

not  reach  the  sunlight  in  times  of  compression. 
(Oppression  ?) 

I  believe  in  a  great  future  for  the  French  peo- 
ple ;  but  I  assign  no  fixed  time  for  its  develop- 
ment. They  are  the  best  and  most  amiable  people 
on  the  earth ;  but  this  healthy  and  robust  body 
has  its  terrible  diseases,  and  could  easily  be 
inoculated  with  the  leprosy  or  the  plague.  Before 
realizing  the  height  of  my  expectations,  it  may 
have  to  pass  through  crises  of  which  I  dare  not 
think. 

It  is  to-day  in  that  phase  of  develo]3ment,  when, 
having  passed  beyond  the  artlessness  of  childhood, 
we  are  still  far  from  manly  wisdom.  There  is  in 
the  individual  life  a  period  of  sad  experiences. 
It  would  seem  that  the  proletariat  understood, 
just  before  February,  that  social  reforms  are  not 
instituted  by  anger,  and  that,  exhortations  to 
violence  leading  to  acts  of  violence,  it  ought  to 
reflect,  become  better  acquainted  with  its  rights, 
obtain  more  accurate  information  as  to  the  state 
of  public  opinion,  and  acquire  a  just  idea  of  its 
duties  towards  the  majority;  for  the  proletariat 
of  which  I  am  speaking,  the  proletariat  militant, 
is  nov/  but  a  feeble  minority  in  France  ;  but  this 
minority  is  strengthened  by  secret  societies  ;  and 


SOCIAL  HE  FORMS.  27 

whether  it  already  possesses,  or  is  still  in  search 
of,  its  rallying-Avord,  the  time  will  come,  sooner 
or  later,  when  it  will  constitute  a  class,  if  not 
more  powerful  than  the  hourgeoisie^  at  least  more 
numerous  and  more  daring.  We  fear  no  risk 
when  we  have  nothing  to  lose. 

The  memorable  annals  of  this  proletariat,  under 
Louis  Philippe,  were  unknown  in  aristocratic 
circles,  and  served  the  rich  classes  simply  for  a 
subject  of  merriment.  It  had  its  poets,  its  econo- 
mists, and  its  apostles,  naive  and  ignorant,  but 
occasionally  inspired,  and  striving  hard  for  im- 
provement. In  those  times  the  workman  was 
modest;  not  humble,  but  sincere  and  touching, 
when  he  said,  "  I  know  nothing,  I  speak  badly, 
and  write  incorrectly ;  but  I  breathe,  I  have  a 
heart,  and  I  hope.  Help  us,  and  we  shall  im- 
prove. We  have  the  minds  of  children  in  the 
bodies  of  men.  Love  us,  and  we  are  ready  to 
reciprocate  that  love.  What  we  most  ilesire  is  to 
be  happy,  without  infringing  upon  the  happiness 
of  others." 

Tlierc  were  more  of  such  men  than  may  be 
supposed,  scattered  about  in  different  quarters, 
some  of  them  possessing  good  and  noble  disposi- 
tions.    They   ought    to    have   been    encouraged. 


28  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

aided,  in  tlieir  legitimate  influence  over  their 
brotlier-laborers.  I  feel  sure  that  the  education 
of  the  proUtaire  might  have  been  effected  by  the 
proper  means ;  but  for  this  there  was  no  desire. 
He  was  laughed  at,  humiliated,  feared,  before  he 
became  dangerous.  He  is  so  now.  Revolutions 
are  exceptional  crises,  when  the  will  becomes 
excited,  and  the  ideas  resemble  fruit  trying  to 
ripen  before  the  tree  has  put  forth  its  leaves. 
When  a  class  is  reduced  to  despair,  it  is  always 
the  fault  of  those  classes  which  have  not  pre- 
vented it,  —  a  fault  always  punished,  and  yet 
constantly  recurring. 

I  warned  you,  my  friends,  but  you  did  not 
listen.  You  treated  me  as  a  dreamer,  a  poet ;  yet 
worthy  men  had  haJd  their  times  of  influence  over 
the  people.  Patience  and  Pierre  Huguenin,  you 
maintained,  were  flattered  portraits.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  art  wished  it  so ;  and  yet  you  knew 
that  these  portraits  were  not  mere  fancies.  Ah ! 
if  a  little  ideality  mingled  with  much  wisdom 
could  have  enlightened  the  bourgeoisie  power  at 
the  right  time,  how  many  disasters  and  mistakes 
might  have  been  prevented!  But  the  blind 
destiny  has  been  accomplished,  and  the  frightful 
crises  have    had    their    effect.      The   rich    class 


SEEKING  FOR  SOLUTIONS.     '  29 

permitted  an  innovation,  the  lourgeois  empire, 
which  promised  not  to  be  military,  and,  by  becom- 
ing seriously  democratic,  might  have  thrown  a 
bridge  across  the  abyss.  At  first  this  seemed  its 
programme  ;  but,  unable  to  maintain  it,  it  fell 
into  the  same  error  as  the  Bourbons  of  Naples, 
governing  not  for  the  people,  but  hy  the  people. 
Hence  the  people  that  we  now  see,  or,  rather, 
that  we  do  not  see,  who  are  seeking,  in  an  under- 
hand way,  for  those  solutions  which  must  one 
day  be  taken  into  consideration.  If  they  would 
seek  these  earnestly,  if  they  were  able  to  pur- 
sue them  with  patience,  they  might  reach  a 
happy  result ;  but,  like  the  hourgeoisie^  they  have 
launched  into  a  life  of  unrestraint,  with  much 
work  to  be  done,  that  is,  much  money  to  be 
gained,  and  no  fixed  course,  each  one  for  his  own 
interest ;  with  many  opportunities  for  pleasure 
and  means  of  development  for  the  few  who  seek 
art  in  luxury,  science  in  trade,  and  instruction  in 
gratified  curiosity  ;  but,  for  the  larger  portion, 
means  of  corruption.  The  child  has  been  set  at 
liberty  before  it  could  understand  the  limit  of  its 
rights.  The  Empire,  by  relying  upon  a  plebineitd', 
has  inaugurated  a  reign  of  ignorance,  and  resorts 
to   force    wlieu   this  becomes  troublesome.     The 


30  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

people  have  believed  themselves  king ;  but,  if 
this  illusion  slill  exists,  it  will  not  last  long  ;  and 
beware  then  of  the  disenchantment ! 

It  will  be  terrible.  At  the  present  time,  the 
majority  is  in  favor  of  empire,  persecuting  and 
insulting  those  who  oppose ;  and,  sad  to  say, 
these  latter  act  with  rage  and  madness.  The 
peasant  is  contented,  and  gradually  loses  the 
spirit  of  consolidation  with  the  mechanic.  The 
latter,  in  his  turn,  avoids  and  scorns  the  husband- 
man, nor  seeks  to  impart  to  him  any  new  ideas. 
The  son  of  the  mechanic  aspires  to  the  position 
of  bourgeois.  It  is  his  right ;  but,  to  attain  it,  he 
must  have  intelhgence  or  instruction.  Unlike 
the  son  of  the  bourgeois,  he  has  no  chance  of 
becoming  a  public  functionary ;  he  is  denied  a 
liberal  career,  and  must  exert  a  superhuman  effort 
to  acquire,  in  his  leisure  moments,  merely  an  ele- 
mentary knowledge,  be  it  only  orthography,  with- 
out which  he  must  remain  in  a  condition  of 
decided  inferiority.  The  mechanic  who,  after  his 
day's  work,  goes  home  to  study,  is  not  the  first 
one  who  has  done  the  same.  In  the  first  place, 
he  has  a  home,  —  which  every  one  has  not,  —  and 
a  few  books ;  and,  if  his  daily  work  is  not  too 
laborious,  he  can  take  a  little  time  from  his  sleep. 


EXAMPLE  AND  PRECEPT.  31 

But  suppose  that  instruction  is  within  the  reach 
of  all,  that  there  are  everywhere  gratuitous 
courses,  and  that  these  courses  are  well  con- 
ducted, which  is  not  always  the  case :  the  work- 
ing-man must  possess  more  than  the  ordinary 
amount  of  courage  and  good  sense,  to  give  up 
his  boisterous  recreations  and  absolute  freedom 
after  his  day's  work.  T[\e  puljlic-house  allures 
him ;  and  the  country  tavern,  which  formerly 
was  the  rendezvous  for  conversation  and  the 
meeting  with  one's  equals,  the  outlet  for  sombre 
ideas,  sometimes  even  a  place  for  the  diffusion  of 
friendship,  is  now  the  scene  of  disorder  and  vice  ; 
and  you,  whose  sons  are  addicted  to  all  those 
excesses  which  they  condemn  among  the  poorer 
classes,  have  no  right  to  insist  on  their  being 
closed.  This  contagion  is  spreading  fast.  When 
I  hear  any  one  say,  "  The  working-man  ought  to 
be  discreet,  steady,  industrious,  and  economical," 
I  ask  myself,  "  Why  not  put  the  example  before 
the  precept?"  Is  it  not  arrant  folly  to  require 
of  a  certain  class  of  men  virtues  with  which  we 
think  we  can  disi)ense,  especially  when  those  vir- 
tues are  a  thousand  times  more  difficult  for  them, 
almost  impossiljlc  without  some  alleviation  in 
tlieir  moral  and  physical  condition  ? 


32  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

So  the  "  people  "  are  in  tlie  fatal  current.  It 
would  be  wrong  for  the  artisan  to  compare  himself 
to  the  "/c?Za7i."  He  is  free,  whatever  he  may 
say  to  the  contrary ;  and  his  wages  have  increased 
with  his  expenses.  But  he  may  say  that  he  has 
fallen  into  gypsyism,  that  he  is  now  hardly  a 
citizen.  We  ought  to  excuse  this ;  but  thin^ 
will  come  to  that  point  where  they  are  beyond 
palliation.  He  has  contracted  a  taste  for  vice. 
His  home  has  become  a  hell.  The  necessity  for 
camping  around  the  great  centres  of  labor  has 
affected  his  habits,  moral  and  physical.  In  those 
places  where  he  has  come  in  contact  with  our 
corrupt  civilization,  in  cities,  especially  in  Paris, 
his  intelligence  is  developed  on  the  surface,  but 
has  no  depth ;  he  understands  every  thing,  but 
comprehends  nothing.  Associated,  in  whatever 
he  does,  with  the  vices  and  absurdities  of  the  bour- 
geoisie^ he  parodies  them  at  the  same  time  that  he 
accords  them  severe  censure.  Nothing  is  sadder 
to  sight  or  hearing  than  these  bombastic  dis- 
coursers,  without  taste,  inspiration,  or  philosophy. 
Alas  !  the  working-man  is  full  of  affectation  ;  but 
he  is  still  nothing  but  a  barbarian.  He  used  to 
be  ingenuous,  good-tempered,  and  quick  at  a 
repartee,   which  was    sometimes    excellent;    but 


PORTRAIT  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  33 

he  has  obtained  his  freedom,  and  noTv  enjoys 
listening  to  himself.  He  makes  use  of  phrases 
that  he  does  not  understand,  and  murders  tech- 
nical terms.  The  ridiculous  charlatan  is  not 
satisfied  with  being  j^our  equal :  he  desires  you  to 
feel  that  he  is  your  superior,  and  believes  that  a 
^tish  could  make  him  so. 

This  is  a  portrait  of  what  may  be  called  the 
greater  and  better  portion.  What  shall  we  say  of 
those  who  have  no  ambition  to  rise ;  who,  taking 
the  epoch  as  it  is,  brutalize  themselves  with  alco- 
hol and  debauchery  ?  From  this  extreme  intem- 
perance result  the  bloodshot  eye,  the  hoarse  and 
cracked  voice,  the  impudent  word,  and  the  sinister 
silence.  Ah !  poor  people  !  Once  you  complained 
of  being  driven  with  work,  and  hardly  liaving 
Sunday  for  rest :  now  —  you  have  paid  dearly  for 
it  —  you  have  a  holiday ;  that  is,  from  Saturday 
evening  till  Monday  morning  j-ou  are  intoxicated. 
On  Monday  you  work  poorly  ;  in  reality,  perform 
but  two  or  three  days'  labor  during  the  week. 
You  brutalize  yourselves  ;  and  that  is  the  benefit 
of  a  life  of  luxuiy.  I  cannot  but  feel  the  deepest 
chagrin.  I  had  (beamed  of  a  future,  not  near,  but 
not  very  distant,  a  crisis  of  social  peace,  when  the 
two  classes  (since  there  are  now  but  two),  becom- 


34  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

ing  enlightened  as  to  their  reciprocat  rights  and 
duties,  should  join  in  a  firm  union,  beyond  all  poli- 
tics or  party  spirit.  Surely  this  great  object  will 
be  achieved  ;  but  the  Empire,  which  ought  to  have 
lent  it  a  helping  hand,  and  the  Emperor,  who 
declared  himself  in  favor  of  it,  have  taken  the 
wrong  road.  The  Paris  of  Voltaire  and  Jeanr 
Jacques  Rousseau  has  become  the  city  of  Sardana- 
palus.  Instead  of  public  schools  in  our  villages, 
we  have  satrapies  in  our  prefectures.  Our  country 
girls  seek  Paris  for  their  dream  of  fortune,  and 
wake  up  upon  the  pavements  between  hunger 
and  prostitution.  Our  rich  young  women  become 
giddy,  our  poor  young  women  —  sell  themselves ! 

We  have  not  yet  reached  the  end  ;  for  each  day 
marks,  in  its  passage,  some  new  effort  towards 
this  decomposition ;  this  vertigo  is  seeking  a  still 
loftier  point  for  its  precipitation.  The  ignorant 
masses  watch  these  somnambuhsts  as  they  pursue 
their  dance  upon  the  roofs.  The  peasant,  who 
now  eats  meat,  and  no  longer  goes  to  market  on 
foot,  shrugs  his  shoulders,  and  says,  "  Fine  times  ! 
The  rich  are  being  ruined ;  the  working-people 
are  having  a  dispute,  and  gaining  nothing.  We 
are  living  well  without  much  expense.  The  great 
estates  are  being  divided  into  small  lots,  and  we 
are  buying  at  retail." 


S 


THE  TWO  ANTINOMIES.  35 

In  fact,  the  peasant  is  amassing  in  proportion  as 
the  bourgeoisie  is  distributing.  In  a  century  all 
the  land  will  be  in  the  possession  of  the  former. 
But  his  will  not  form  a  new  class  that  will  take 
its  rank  in  society :  it  will  be  only  a  stratum  rest- 
ing upon  a  more  ancient  stratum.  Herein  does 
not  lie  the  solution  of  the  social  problem.  The 
class  which  is  working  for  enjoyment,  and  not  for 
possessions,  will  threaten  the  rich  of  to-morrow 
as  they  threaten  the  rich  of  to-day. 

All  this  is  mortally  dark,  dark  and  sorrowful; 
and,  after  such  a  summary,  one  feels,  as  it  were,  a 
disgust  for  the  relations  of  life.  Let  us  see  what 
efforts  the  mind  can  make,  to  reach  a  more  logical 
solution  than  that  of  the  Empire.  We  do  not 
know  exactly  where  it  is  leading  us :  let  us  try 
and  see  how  we  could  go  alone,  if  we  should 
cease  to  be  led  like  children. 

Republic  or  monarchy,  it  matters  little.  The 
best  course  would  be  to  find  a  new  name  for  the 
two  antinomies  which  exist  here  as  everywhere. 
We  should  have  to  await  the  time  when  the 
producer  and  tlic  vender  would  in  good  earnest, 
and  under  the  pressure  of  a  social  necessity  well 
demonstrated,  sign  an  act  of  association.  This 
act  should  be  rigorously  stipulated,  after  having 


36  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

been  thoroughly  debated  by  representatives  cho- 
sen with  a  view  to  the  respective  interests  of  both 
parties.  These  debates  would  touch  upon  the 
more  or  less  elevated  character  of  labor,  indus- 
try, and  intelligence,  by  which  the  working-man 
helps  to  build  up  the  fortune  of  his  patron.  The 
associations  of  mutual  interests,  which  are  formed 
nowadays,  by  private  agreement  in  particular 
cases,  would  be  established  legally  and  uniformly 
throughout  France,  by  the  promulgation  of  a  con- 
stitutional law,  but  on  certain  conditions  of  moral 
worth  on  both  sides,  which  would  serve  as  a 
guaranty  for  the  two  parties  contracting. 

It  is  not  within  my  province  to  develop  this 
idea,  very  simple,  and  already  wide-spread,  but 
requiring  such  delicate  application  as  to  demand 
special  knowledge.  A  basis  has  been  sketched 
by  many  short  essays.  We  must  suppose  that 
the  means  for  application  were  not  sufficient : 
it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  they  do  not  exist. 
Every  good  and  generous  idea  that  the  human 
mind  conceives  can  and  ought  to  be  realized.  It 
is  foolish  to  say,  "  Your  idea  is  very  fine,  but  it 
is  impracticable."  If  it  is  fine,  it  cannot  be  im- 
practicable. Humanity  is  so  constructed  that, 
notwithstanding  all  its  errors   and  deviations,  it 


THE    WRONG   COURSE.  37 

tends  towards  the  light,  and  towards  the  straight 
line.  We  have  been  able  to  establish  the  dis- 
tinction of  interests,  a  triumph  of  civilization 
over  barbarit}^  a  work  much  more  difficult  than 
that  of  the  association  of  interests  in  the  midst 
of  civilization. 

The  day  will  come,  therefore  I  do  not  despair  ; 
but,  just  at  present,  we  are  turning  from  the  right 
course,  and  I  am  distressed. 


H 


CHAPTER  III. 

AGAIN  LIST  THE   WOODS. 

FONTAINEBLEAU,  AugUSt,  1837. 

ERE  I  am  again  in  the  woods,  with  no 
companion  but  my  son,  who  is  getting  to 
be  a  great  boy  ;  and  yet  I  am  even  now  more  his 
cavalier  than  he  is  mine.  We  risk  our  lives  on 
all  sorts  of  animals,  —  donkeys  and  horses  more 
or  less  wild,  who  generally  take  ns  where  they 
choose,  from  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  till  five 
or  six  o'clock  in  the  evening.  We  take  neither  a 
guide,  nor  a  plan  in  our  pockets.  We  don't  mind 
where  we  wander,  for  it  would  be  difficult  to  lose 
one's  way  in  a  forest  full  of  guide-posts.  We 
avoid  meeting  any  one,  by  taking  those  roads 
least  frequented  ;  and  they  are  not  the  less  beau- 
tiful. Every  thing  here  is  lovely.  Forests  are 
always  beautiful,  in  every  country  in  the  world. 
Here  the  hilly  nature  of  the  ground  increases  its 
charm,  without  rendering  travel  impracticable. 
It  is  no  slight  pleasure  to  be  able  to  climb  every- 

38 


LIFE  IN   THE    WOODS.  39 

where,  even  on  horseback,  and  to  gather  flowers 
and  butterflies  wherever  we  are  tempted.  These 
long  rides — whole  days  in  the  open  air — just 
suit  my  taste  ;  and  this  solitude,  and  this  solemn 
silence,  at  certain  Paris  hours,  are  inappreciable. 
We  live  on  bread,  cold  chicken,  and  fruit,  which 
we  bring  with  us,  together  with  books,  albums, 
and  insect-boxes.  What  interestinG;'  noctules ! 
What  fresh  specimens  of  the  bombyx  asleep,  and, 
as  it  were,  glued  to  the  bark  of  the  oak-trees  ! 
What  collections  for  Maurice,  and  what  pleasure 
to  display  them  in  the  evening  upon  the  work- 
table  !  We  are  acquainted  with  no  one  in  the 
town.  We  occupy  a  small  but  very  comfortable 
suite  of  apartments  in  a  hotel  just  on  the  confines 
of  the  woods,  where  nobody  troubles  himself 
about  our  affairs.  We  liave  two  little  chambers, 
separated  by  a  small  parlor,  Avhere  I  work  at 
night  while  my  child  is  snoring.  This  good, 
sound  sleep  is  delightful  to  my  ears.  As  to  my- 
self, I  do  not  know  when  I  sleep :  I  never  give  it 
a  thought.  ^Nline  is  a  rational  life.  I  live;  in  the 
trees,  upon  the  heath,  on  the  sand,  —  I  live  in 
Nature's  activity  and  in  her  repose,  in  the  instinct 
and  in  feeling,  l)ut,  above  all,  in  my  son.  He  has 
been  ill,  l)ut  is  nf)W  decidedly  better.     He  enjo^'S 


40  UJPEESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

this  kind  of  life  as  mucli  as  myself,  and  that  gives 
me  double  pleasure.  What  a  marvel  is  this 
blessed  forest !  M.  de  S^nancour  has  drawn  an 
admirable  picture  of  it  in  certain  pages  of  his 
work ;  in  others,  I  know  not  why,  he  depreciates 
it,  as  though  he  were  afraid  of  bestowing  too 
much  admiration.  Some  would  say  that  he  saw 
it  through  spleen.  He  tries  to  impress  upon  his 
readers  that  it  is  not  so  vast  or  mountainous  as 
Switzerland.  Why  draw  a  comparison  ?  In  that 
way  we  are  doing  ourselves  a  wrong,  —  we  are 
waging  a  petty  war  with  our  own  enjoyment. 
What  is  beautiful  in  a  certain  way  is  neither  more 
nor  less  so  than  something  else  that  is  beautiful  in 
a  different  way.  For  my  own  part,  I  could  pass 
my  life  here,  without  ever  thinking  of  Switzer- 
land, and  vice  versa.  When  one  is  well  off,  I  do 
not  understand  the  necessity  of  trying  to  better 
his  position.  I  do  not  know  whether  the  proverb, 
"  Le  mieux  est  I'ennemi  du  bien,"  is  absolutely 
true  ;  but  in  point  of  locomotion,  curiosity,  con- 
templation, or  the  study  of  things  in  general,  I 
am  of  opinion  that  regret,  or  the  desire  for  some- 
thing better,  is  the  delusion  of  a  morbid  fancy. 
That  was  the  case  with  S^nancour.  "  Ober- 
mann  "  shows  a  morbid  genius.     I  used  to  like  it 


HEALTHY   TREES  AND  MORBID  BOOKS.  41 

very  mucli :  I  like  it  still,  that  strange  book,  so 
admirably  deformed !  but  I  much  prefer  a  fine, 
healthy  tree. 

Thus  we  have  healthy  trees  and  morbid  books, 
luxuriance  and  despondency.  That  which  is 
devoid  of  thought  must  necessarily  remain  young 
and  beautiful,  to  prove  that  prosperity's  laws  are 
absolute,  beyond  our  relative  and  factitious  laws 
which  make  us  old  and  ugly  before  our  time. 
That  which  is  endowed  with  thought  must  suffer, 
to  prove  that  we  live  in  false  conditions,  in  discord 
with  our  real  needs  and  true  instincts.  So  all 
these  magnificent  things  incapable  of  thinking 
furnish  many  a  subject  for  thought. 

NOHANT,  1863. 

"So,"  persisted  A ,  who  read  me  the  fore- 
going letter  dated  twenty -six  years  ago  (I  do  not 
know  how  it  fell  into  his  possession),  "you  are 
thinking  at  the  same  time  that  you  are  indulging 
in  revery,  although  you  may  pretend  to  have  the 
power  of  banishing  thought  at  certain  times  ?  " 

'"  I  make  no  pretensions,  my  dear  A ,  but  I 

solemnly  assure  you  that  there  are  moments  when 
I  cease  to  think.  If  you  arc  astonished  at  that,  I 
am  none  the  less  so  to  hear  you  often  affirm  that 


44  nfPBESsroNS  and  reminiscences. 

been  mucli  censured  for  having  too  much  pliilos- 
ophy  in  my  romances.  That  arises  from  my 
frequent  fits  of  passiveness.  If  I  am  under  the 
influence  of  deep  feeling,  or  moved  by  a  convic- 
tion, my  reflections,  my  reveries,  even  my  fictions, 
are  necessarily  affected.  They  are  impregnated  in 
like  manner  as  our  clothes  and  our  hair  retain  the 
perfume  of  the  garden  or  the  woods.  It  is  not  my 
fault  if  occasionally  my  mind  soars  above  my 
occupation :  it  is  because  it  has  discovered  a  more 
beautiful  region,  and  because  it  is  beyond  my 
power  to  tear  myself  away  suddenly,  and  devote 
my  energies  to  the  achievement  of  success ;  that 
is,  to  the  art  of  displeasing  no  one. 

Free  arbitration,  entirely  free !  Fifty  years 
ago  I  made  an  attempt  to  think  of  such  subjects 
only  as  could  be  made  useful  by  the  slave  that 
I  am.  In  order  to  control  my  unruly  brain,  I 
determined  on  a  regular  life,  and  imposed  upon 
myself  a  daily  task;  but  twenty  times  out  of 
thirty  I  forgot  myself,  and  fell  to  dreaming  or 
reading  or  writing  on  some  subject  which  ought 
not  to  have  absorbed  my  attention.  Had  it  not 
been  for  these  frequent  intellectual  strolls,  I 
should  have  acquired  instruction  ;  for  I  compre- 
hend pretty  readily,  and  analyze  even  too  rapidly. 


SLEEP  AND   DREAMS.  45 

I  should  have  forced  my  mind  to  classify  its 
ideas.  To  understand  and  to  know  has  been  my 
perpetual  aspiration ;  but  my  desire  has  by  no 
means  been  realized.  My  will  has  not  had  abso- 
lute control  over  my  thoughts;  yet  I  cannot 
suffer  from  remorse,  for  I  have  indulged  in  no 
idleness,  nor  opened  the  door  to  any  kind  of 
distraction.  The  exterior  world  has  always  had 
more  power  over  me  than  I  over  it.  I  have 
become  a  mirror,  in  which  my  own  reflection  is 
crowded  out  by  the  accumulation  of  other  figures 
and  objects.  When  I  try  to  see  myself  in  this 
mirror,  I  behold  plants,  insects,  landscapes,  water, 
the  profiles  of  mountains,  clouds,  and,  above  all, . 
unheard-of  heights;  but  nothing  in  this  world 
takes  note  of  me  unless  from  want  of  my  admi- 
ration, and  then  laughs  at  my  flattering  descrip- 
tion. 

When  we  sleep,  and  dreams  rock  us  gently  or 
shake  us  roughly,  we  are  the  delighted  or  terri- 
fied captives  of  the  spectres  that  visit  us.  What 
are  they  ?  Whence  do  they  come  ?  What  avails 
our  will  to  retain  them  or  to  drive  them  away  ? 
It  is  powerless.  A  fool  is  a  x^oor  wretch  who 
dreams  without  sleeping.  Arc  we  not  fools  eveiy 
time  we  dream? 


46  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

It  is  maintained  that  dreams  are  caused  by 
ourselves,  that  they  are  the  result  of  impressions 
received,  painful  or  agreeable,  according  to  the 
condition  of  the  body.  Granted ;  but  this  result 
is  i)roduced  in  spite  of  ourselves.  And  these 
impressions  received,  —  what  would  they  be,  were 
it  not  for  the  action  of  the  external  world,  which 
exercises  over  us  an  invincible  power,  doubled  in 
intensity  when  our  will  is  disarmed  by  sleep  ? 
This  power  becomes  even  ferocious  towards  our 
poor  0716  in  the  visions  of  certain  fevers.  It  is 
certain,  then,  that  poets  or  philosophers,  kings  or 
shepherds,  active  or  indolent,  weak  or  strong,  we 
are,  during  a  third  or  a  quarter  part  of  our  lives, 
—  the  time  given  to  sleep,  —  under  the  control  of 
a  vision,  to  whose  mild  or  terrible  omnipotence 
we  must  submit.  Who  would  venture  to  affirm 
that,  while  in  a  state  of  sleep,  we  are  all  in  a  lucid 
condition,  and  capable  of  repulsing  these  obses- 
sions of  the  not-me  ?  If  it  were  so,  if  we  had 
the  control  of  our  thoughts,  we  should  also  have 
the  control  of  our  feelings.  Grief  at  losing  our 
dear  ones  would  be  soon  effaced  by  the  power  of 
our  will.  Oblivion  would  enter  our  minds,  and 
we  should  become  perfect  egotists.  I  forgot  that 
I  am  writipg  this  evening  for  A ,  and  that  he 


TUE  POWER   OF   WILL.  47 

will  cry  out  against  this  want  of  devotion.  Well, 
he  over-estimates  his  own  powers  when  he  ima- 
gines that  he  can  make  his  ideas  subject  to  his 
inclination.  Such  a  thing  is  not  possible.  We 
differ  more  or  less ;  fundamentally,  however,  wc 
are  all  the  same  to  a  certain  degree,  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  any  one  of  us  possesses  the  power  of 
voluntarily  withdrawing  from  the  external  world. 
Wisdom  consists,  perhaps,  in  making  an  orderly 
classification  of  the  nature  of  impressions  received, 
not  allowing  one  to  encroach  upon  another,  and 
separating,  as  occasion  may  require,  the  one  that 
is  to  be  received.  Thence  the  great  works  of  the 
mind,  and  even  ingenuities  of  trade  ;  thence  also 
the  great  concentrations  of  study,  specialities. 
But  to  believe  that  all  men  are  endowed  with 
this  power,  —  no,  I  cannot ;  and  I  even  consider 
it  very  fortunate  that  we  are  not  masters  of  our- 
selves to  that  degree  maintained  by  some.  Our 
freedom  is  in  proportion  to  our  knowledge  ;  tliat 
is,  our  intellectual  development.  Free  arbitration 
signifies  free  choice  between  good  and  evil ;  but 
to  make  that  choice  is  required  a  clear  knowledge 
of  what  is  good  and  what  is  evil.  Individuals 
deprived,  by  a  bud  education,  of  healthy  moral 
ideas,  have  little  knowledge  of  conscience  ;   others 


48  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

possess  a  vague  notion  of  it,  and  allow  that  to 
become  easily  perverted  by  corrupt  influences. 
Our  judgment,  then,  must  be  developed  by  edu- 
cation, to  escape  that  fatahty  which  threatens  the 
life  of  the  ignorant ;  but  this  education,  too 
stoical  or  too  idealistic,  ought  not  to  awaken  a 
desire  to  absolutely  destroy  all  communication 
with  outward  influences.  This  would  be  a  mad 
attempt,  which  would  lead  to  folly,  fanaticism,  or 
atheism ;  to  the  hatred  of  God  or  our  equals  ;  to 
inordinate  pride,  which  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  deprivation  of  our  relations  with  universal 
life,  consequently  a  narrowness  of  conception. 
All  that  is  apparently  apart  from  us  belongs 
to  ourselves.  The  not-me  has  not  an  absolute 
existence :  consequently  the  absolute  me  is  a  false 
notion.  The  whole  earth  and  the  whole  heavens 
are  constantly  exerting  an  action  over  us ;  and  we 
are  unconsciously  imparting  a  similar  re-action. 
Every  thing  is  either  a  receptacle  or  an  outlet, 
an  element  or  a  sustenance,  of  life.  The  respira- 
tion of  all  beings  is  necessary  to  provide  each  one 
of  us  with  his  dose  of  vital  air.  The  clouds  are 
the  sweat  of  the  earth :  they  must  perspire,  or 
we  should  become  parched.  The  smallest  star 
in  the  Milky  Way  has  an  assigned  function  to 


REFLECTIONS   ON   DEATH.  49 

perform  for  the  subsistence  of  the  universe.  Like 
the  clrojD  of  water  brilliant  with  the  hues  of  the 
prism,  we  have  reflections,  immense  projections 
into  space.  And  I,  poor  atom  that  I  am,  when  I 
feel  myself  the  rainbow  or  the  j\Iilky  Way,  am 
indulging  in  no  vain  dream.  I  am  in  all,  and  all 
in  me. 

I  am  not  at  liberty  to  sever  mj^self  from  what 
constitutes  my  life.  Death  will  not  effect  the 
separation.  I  cannot  become  annihilated  by  my 
will.  It  would  be  useless  for  me  to  say,  "  I  wish 
to  end  my  being.  I  do  not  desire  to  feel,  laugh, 
or  weep.  I  will  neither  suffer  nor  enjoy.  I  will 
behold  crime,  shame,  insanity,  and  say,  '  Those 
people  are  fools,  but  it  matters  not  to  me.'  I  will 
lose  those  whom  I  love,  and  say  to  myself  that 
these  things  must  happen,  and  that  my  grief  can- 
not restore  them  to  life.  I  will  be  wise,  holy,  or 
strong,  in  my  own  self,  in  my  corner,  in  m}"- 
shell,  in  my  inward  satisfaction.  I  ^^■ill  have,  as  a 
recompense,  great  wisdom  or  great  power,  fortune 
or  paradise.  I  have  broken  witli  the  affections, 
with  weaknesses,  witli  all  curiosity,  with  all  joint 
responsil)ility,  with  all  nature.  I  scorn  all  l)eings, 
having  made  myself  a  man  pre-eminently  free, 
the  most  isolated,  the  least  influenced,  the  least 
suV)servient,  the  strongest,  oi  all  beings." 


50  IMPJiESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Is  not  this  what  every  man  says  to  himself 
when  he  proclaims  himself  king  of  the  creation? 
It  is  the  greatest  nonsense  imaginable.  We  are 
neither  kings  nor  slaves,  but  members  of  one 
great  association  called  the  world,  —  nothing 
more,  nothing  less. 

If  we  have  been  able  to  subdue  a  few  animals 
by  mutilating  them,  if  we  do  arrogate  to  our- 
selves, above  all  others,  the  right  to  life  and 
death,  we  are  not  the  less  at  war  with  the  greater 
part  of  them,  and  innumerable  multitudes  escape 
our  dominion.  A  microscopic  insect  is  capable  of 
causing  us  annoyance,  even  as  a  fly  is  sufficient 
to  rouse  the  fury  of  a  lion.  Alas !  animals  and 
people  are  equal  in  the  laws  of  Nature,  if  our 
pride  would  only  acknowledge  it.  Immutable 
though  she  is,  she  allows  us  to  infringe  upon  her 
laws,  but  not  to  destroy  them,  either  in  the  out- 
ward world  or  within  ourselves. 

All  Frenchmen  are  equal  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law.  Such  is  the  device  of  our  society.  A  cruel 
sentence  when  it  visits  the  same  penalty  on  him 
who  is  ignorant  as  on  him  who  is  cognizant. 
Lords  of  creation,  we  have  not  been  able  to 
improve  upon  the  brute  laws  of  unconscious 
nature.  It  was  not  worth  Avhile  to  usurp  so  fine 
a  title. 


THE  EMPIRE  OF  SELF.  51 

This  great  king,  Mr.  Man,  has  tried  for  all 
empires,  and  believed  that  he  possessed  the  em- 
pire of  self  when  he  invented  stoicism.  As  all 
his  inventions  are  inadequate  on  one  side,  ex- 
treme on  the  other,  with  reason  in  the  centre,  so 
this  philosophy  has  its  foll}^,  its  sublimity,  its 
madness.  It  rests  upon  that  perfect  faith  in 
free  arbitration,  which  is  the  subject  of  my 
meditation.  It  lays  down  as  a  principle  that 
man  can  do  what  he  hkes,  and  that  question  is 
badly  put.  Men  —  humanity — can,  in  the  long- 
run,  do  what  they  like.  The  individual  man,  in 
his  short  life,  can  do  almost  nothing:  his  power 
of  a  day  vanishes  with  him,  often  before  him. 
To  wish  for  too  much  involves  danger,  as  to 
wish  for  too  little  imposes  a  limit.  Stoicism  is 
beautiful  whilst  it  develops  the  courage  to  bear 
inevitable  sufferinc^s :  it  becomes  horrible  when  it 
destroys  sensibility,  compassion,  tenderness.  Cer- 
tain ascetic  devotions  fall  unconsciously  into 
the  excess  of  stoicism,  and  yet  have  not  the 
merit  of  sacrificing  every  thing  to  virtue,  since 
1  hoy  are  working  for  a  personal  interest,  —  para- 
dise. I  have  known  those  who  reckoned  with 
God  Almighty  as  Jews  with  their  client,  keeping 
an   account   of  their  sacrifices   and  dex)rivations, 


52  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

and  saying,  "  That  will  be  put  to  my  credit  in 
heaven."  s 

Where  is  charity,  true  devotion,  or  real  sacri- 
fice, in  this  dehit  and  credit  of  the  devout  con- 
science ?  The  stoic  said,  "  I  wish  to  overcome 
suffering  in  order  to  teach  other  men  to  over- 
come weakness  and  cowardice."  The  ascetic 
troubles  himself  very  little  about  his  fellow- 
creatures.  They  are  only  in  the  way  of  his 
salvation,  and  he  tries  to  avoid  them.  He  looks 
upon  life  merely  as  an  opportunity  of  gaining  a 
happy  eternity. 

Is,  then,  this  halting-place  on  our  way  to  eter- 
nity of  no  account?  Are  not  the  sorrows  with 
which  it  abounds  duties  which  we  must  acce23t, 
trials  to  which  we  must  submit,  homage  we  must 
pay  to  our  mission  in  this  world  ?  To  destroy 
grief,  to  crush  regret  beneath  our  feet,  to  over- 
turn the  laws  of  Nature,  to  shake  off  human 
reason,  would  certainly  be  very  convenient ;  but, 
if  such  be  possible  to  certain  perverted  minds,  I 
cannot  see  that  it  is  edifying,  useful,  or  produc- 
tive. 

In  all  the  philosophies  which  have  guided  man, 
this  principle  appears  to  be  always  dominant,  —  to 
abstain.      The    Epicureans    themselves    did    not 


THE  PRINCIPLE   OF  ABSTINENCE.  53 

preach,  as  might  be  supposed,  sensualism  and  the 
surrender  of  the  mind  to  all  its  fancies.  Thev, 
too,  had  their  restrictions,  their  principles  of 
moderation,  even  of  abstinence. 

The  aim  of  all  wisdom  is  to  teach  us  how  to 
suffer  least ;  consequently,  to  avoid  what  causes 
suffering.  Christianity,  which  is  not  a  matter  of 
wisdom,  but  an  ideal,  has  taught  us  the  contrary : 
"  Seek  suffering  for  yoifl-  purification."  This  is 
grand  and  beautiful,  since  the  hope  of  personal 
recompense  in  another  life  is  not  of  such  a  char- 
acter as  to  cancel  all  merit  in  the  martyr.  Now 
that  we  understand  the  abuse  which  fanaticism- 
has  made  of  the  ideal,  we  need  a  philosophy 
which  shall  teach  us  not  to  seek,  but  to  accept 
suffering  as  a  universal  law  whence  springs  uni- 
versal renovation. 

Nature,  which  seeks  to  make  us  sensitive  to 
pain,  appears  wiser  to  me  in  her  salutary  ligor, 
than  our  so-called  wisdom  in  its  chiims  to  sup- 
press pain  by  force  of  will.  Nature  does  not 
allow  us  to  Ijccome  insensible ;  and  it  is  almost 
impiety  to  refuse  to  feel  her  blows.  By  seeking 
too  much  frecd(jin,  we  abandon  nature  and  truth, 
and  enter  upon  an  abnormal  existence  ;  because 
absolute  freedom  can  be  acquired  only  by  aban- 
doning humanity. 


54  IMPBESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Therefore  I  do  not  reproach  myself  so  much 
for  not  absolutely  controlling  my  mind.  I  feel 
that  its  merry  frolics  and  its  listlessness  arise  from 
the  nature  of  the  impressions  which  it  receives, 
and  which  it  has  not  always  the  right  to  avoid. 
This  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question  of  good 
and  evil.  If,  in  perverse  minds,  the  corrupt 
imagination  furnishes  poisonous  food,  it  is  in 
vain  to  preach  free  arbitration.  The  perverse 
mind  will  choose  the  freedom  of  evil.  In  holy 
minds,  the  imagination  is  a  delicate  friend,  which 
must  not  be  treated  inconsiderately,  and  which, 
sadly  or  joyously,  tells  us  of  divine  things,  thus 
making  amends  to  us  for  the  time  that  it  spends 
in  actual  study. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LOVE.  —  REPLY  TO   A  FRLEXD. 

NoHANT,  August,  1871. 

WHAT  !  you  wish  me  to  cease  loving?  You 
wish  me  to  say  that  I  have  been  mistaken 
all  my  life,  that  humanity  is  hateful,  despicable, 
that  it  has  alwa3's  been  so,  and  alwaj-s  will  be? 
And  do  you  chide  me  for  my  grief  as  if  it  were  a 
weakness,  childish  regret  for  a  lost  illusion  ?  Do 
you  affirm  that  the  "  people "  have  always  been 
ferocious,  the  priest  hypocritical,  the  bourgeois 
cowardly,  the  soldier  thievish,  the  peasant  stupid? 
You  say  that  you  have  known  this  from  3'our 
youth,  and  rejoice  that  you  have  never  doubted  it, 
because  now  mature  age  has  no  deception  to  dis- 
close. You  have  never  been  young,  then.  Ah, 
it  is  very  different  with  me  !  If  to  love  continu- 
ally makes  one  young,  then  I  am  still  young. 
How  do  you  wish  me  to  isolate  myself  from  ni}- 
fellow-creatures,  my  compatriots,  from  that  great 
family  in  the  midst  of  which  my  private  family  is 
but  an  ear  of  corn  in  the  great  terrestrial  field  ? 

05 


56  I3IPRESSI0NS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

If  this  ear  could  ripen  in  some  safe  place,  if  we 
could,  as  you  say,  live  for  a  few  privileged  beings, 
and  withdraw  ourselves  from  all  others —  But 
that  would  be  impossible.  Your  sound  sense  is 
indulging  in  the  most  unreal  of  Utopias.  In 
what  Eden,  in  what  fantastic  Eldorado,  would  you 
conceal  your  family,  your  little  group  of  friends, 
your  own  private  hap]Diness,  where  they  would  be 
unmolested  by  the  commotions  of  social  life  or 
political  disasters  ?  You  might  be  happy  in  the 
society  of  a  chosen  few  ;  but  those  few,  the 
favorites  of  your  heart,  must  be  happy  by  them- 
selves. Can  they  be  so  ?  Can  you  insure  them 
the  least  security  ?  Could  you  find  a  refuge  for 
me  in  my  old  age,  when  on  the  verge  of  death  ? 
What  difference  does  it  make  to  me,  on  my  own 
account,  whether  I  die  now,  or  live  a  httle  longer? 
I  will  suppose  that  we  die  completely,  or  that 
love  does  not  follow  us  to  another  life :  should  we 
not  be  tormented,  till  our  dying  breath,  with  the 
desire,  the  imperious  necessity,  of  insuring  for 
those  whom  we  leave  the  greatest  possible  amount 
of  happiness  ?  Could  we  go  to  sleep  in  peace 
when  we  felt  the  earth  trembling,  ready  to 
swallow  up  those  for  whom  we  have  lived  ? 

Domestic  happiness  is,  in  spite  of  every  thing,  a 


LOVE  AND  LIFE.  bl 

great  relative  good,  the  only  consolation  that  we 
could  or  would  enjoy.  But  even  supposing  that 
external  evil  could  not  reach  our  homes,  —  which, 
you  know  very  well,  would  be  impossible,  —  I 
will  not  allow  that  we  could  be  resigned  to  what 
causes  the  public  unhappiness. 

This  was  all  foreseen.  I  foresaw  it  as  well  as 
any  one  else.  I  beheld  the  storm  rising  :  I  looked 
on,  like  all  others  who  gave  their  earnest  atten- 
tion, at  the  evident  approach  of  the  cataclysm. 
Is  it  any  consolation  to  us,  when  we  see  the 
patient  writhing  in  suffering,  that  we  understand 
the  nature  of  his  disease?  When  the  thunder- 
bolt strikes  us,  are  we  calm  from  having  heard  its 
previous  rumbling  ?  No,  no :  we  cannot  isolate 
ourselves ;  we  cannot  break  the  bonds  of  consan- 
guinity ;  we  cannot  curse  nor  despise  our  race. 
Humanity  is  not  a  vain  word.  Our  life  is  com- 
posed of  love ;  and  not  to  love,  is  not  to  live. 

The  people,  you  say,  the  people  !  That  is  you 
and  I,  beyond  denial.  There  are  not  two  races. 
The  distinction  of  class  only  proves  the  illusive- 
ness  of  relative  inequalities.  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  have  remote  ancestors  in  the  bour- 
(jeoinie:  as  to  myself,  my  maternal  roots  come 
directly  from  the   people,  and  I  feel   them  still 


58  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

alive  at  the  extremity  of  my  being.  We  all  have 
them  there,  although  in  some  instances  they  are 
more  distinct  than  in  others.  The  first  men  were 
hunters  and  shepherds,  then  laborers  and  soldiers. 
Plunder  crowned  with  success  gave  birth  to  the 
first  social  distinctions.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  a 
title  that  was  not  obtained  through  the  blood  of 
man.  We  must  submit  to  ancestors,  if  we  have 
them ;  but  are  these  first  trophies  of  hatred  and 
violence  a  glory  of  which  any  mind,  however 
little  philosophic,  would  think  of  availing  itself? 
The  people  always  ferocious^  you  say :  /  say,  the 
nobility  always  savage. 

It  is  certain  that  the  peasants,  as  a  class,  are 
the  most  unyielding  to  progress,  consequently 
the  least  civilized.  Thinkers  ought  to  rejoice  that 
they  do  not  belong  to  this  class ;  but  if  we  are 
bourgeois.,  if  we  are  descendants  of  the  serf  and 
the  feudal  tenant,  can  we  bow  with  love  and 
respect  before  the  sons  of  our  fathers'  oppressors  ? 
No  !  Whoever  disowns  the  people  degrades  him- 
self, and  presents  to  the  world  the  shameful  spec- 
tacle of  apostasy.  K  we,  as  bourgeoisie^  wish  to 
rise  again,  and  once  more  become  a  class,  we  have 
nothing  lo  do  but  proclaim  ourselves  the  "peo- 
ple,"  and   struggle,  till   death,  with   those   who 


POPULAR  IGNORANCE.  59 

pretend  to  superiority  by  divine  right.  For  hav- 
ing failed  in  dignity  in  our  revolutionary  man- 
date, for  having  aped  the  nobility,  usurped  its 
insignia,  and  caught  up  its  playthings,  for  hav- 
ing been  shamefully  ridiculous  and  cowardly, 
we  are  no  longer  reckoned  of  any  value.  The 
common  people,  who  ought  to  have  made  one 
with  us,  now  disown,  forsake,  and  oppress  us. 

The  people  ferocious  ?  No  :  they  are  no  longer 
fools.  Their  real  disease  is  ignorance  and  sim- 
plicity.  It  was  not  the  common  people  of  Paris 
that  massacred  the  prisoners,  destroyed  the  monu- 
ments, and  tried  to  set  fire  to  the  city.  The  com- 
mon people  were  the  only  ones  who  remained  in 
Paris  after  the  siege ;  for  all  who  could  by  any 
means  afford  it  hastened  to  breathe  the  provincial 
air,  and  embrace  their  absent  relatives,  after  the 
physical  and  moral  sufferings  arising  from  the 
investment  of  the  city.  All  who  remained  in 
Paris  were  the  merchant  and  the  workman,  those 
two  agents  of  labor  and  exchange,  without  which 
Paris  could  not  exist.  These  are  what,  in  reality, 
constitute  the  common  people  of  Paris  ;  it  is  one 
and  the  same  family,  whose  union  and  rclationsliip 
cannot  be  destroyed  hy  political  misunderstand- 
ings.    It  is  acknowledged  now  that  the  oppressors 


GO  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

of  this  time  were  among  the  minority.  The  com- 
mon people  of  Paris  were  not  disposed  to  be  furi- 
ous ;  for  the  majority  showed  signs  of  weakness 
and  fear.  The  movement  was  organized  by  men 
who  had  already  entered  the  ranks  of  the  bour- 
geoisie^ and  no  longer  had  any  thing  in  common 
with  the  habits  or  necessities  of  the  proletariat. 
The  former  were  moved  by  hatred,  deceived  ambi- 
tion, misapprehended  patriotism,  fanaticism  with- 
out an  ideal,  and  the  folly  of  sentiment  or  natural 
wickedness.  To  all  these  combined  were  added 
certain  points  of  honor  in  regard  to  doctrine, 
which  would  not  shrink  from  danger.  They 
certainly  did  not  lean  upon  the  middle  class,  who 
trembled,  fled,  or  sought  concealment.  They  were 
forced  to  incite  to  action  the  true  proletaire,  who 
have  nothing  to  lose.  Well,  this  proletaire,  even, 
eluded  them  in  a  great  measure,  divided  as  was 
this  class  into  such  diverse  shades,  some  trying  to 
profit  from  the  disorder,  others  dreading  the 
consequences  of  their  enthusiasm,  the  greater  part 
using  no  reason  at  all,  because  the  evil  had  become 
extreme,  and  want  of  work  had  forced  them  to 
march  to  the  contest  at  thirty  sous  a  day. 

Why  do  you  make  this  proletariat,  shut  up  in 
Paris,  and  numbering  not  more  than  eighty  thou- 


THE  INTERMEDIATE  MULTITUDE.  61 

sand  soldiers,  —  victims  of  hunger  and  despair,  — 
represent  the  people  of  France  ?  They  do  not 
even  represent  the  people  of  Paris,  unless  you 
maintain  the  distinction  that  I  reject,  between 
the  producer  and  the  trader. 

But  I  will  follow  you,  and  ask  upon  what 
ground  you  base  this  distinction.  Is  it  ujion  a 
greater  or  less  amount  of  education?  The  limit 
would  be  undiscernible.  If  jow.  find  among  the 
highest  of  the  bourgeoisie  wise  and  literary  men, 
if  you  see  among  the  lowest  of  the  proletariat 
savages  and  brutes,  you  have  still  that  intermedi- 
ate multitude,  presenting  here  wise  and  intelli- 
gent proletaires,  there  bourgeois  neither  wise  nor 
intelligent.  The  greater  part  of  enlightened 
citizens  date  from  the  present  time ;  and  many  of 
tliose  wlio  can  read  and  write  have  fathers  and 
mothers  who  can  hardly  sign  their  names. 

Should  the  classification  of  men  into  two  dis- 
tinct camps  depend  solely  upon  the  accumulation 
of  wealth  ?  Even  then,  where  could  you  place 
the  boundary-line,  when,  every  day,  some  change 
is  takiijg  place  ?  Ruin  thrusts  one  down,  fortune 
raises  another.  They  exchange  positions.  He 
who  was  bourgeois  this  morning  becomes  proletaire 
this  evening  ;  and  ]iu  who  was  proletaire  just  now 


62  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

will  change  to  bourgeois  during  the  clay,  if  he 
find  a  purse,  or  receive  a  legacy  from  an  uncle. 
^  You  see  now  that  such  an  attempt  would  be 
vain,  and  that  the  labor  of  classification,  what- 
ever method  was  pursued,  would  be  insurmount- 
able. 

One  man  is  neither  above  nor  below  another, 
except  in  point  of  common-sense  or  morality. 
Instruction  which  develops  only  egotistic  sensu- 
ality is  worth  less  than  the  ignorance  of  the  pro- 
IStaire,  honest  from  instinct  and  habit.  This 
compulsor}'-  instruction,  which  we  all  desire  out 
of  respect  for  human  rights,  is  not  a  panacea, 
from  which  we  may  look  for  miracles.  It  serves 
bad  natures  as  a  more  ingenious  and  clandestine 
means  of  doing  evil.  Like  every  thing  that  man 
uses  and  abuses,  it  may  become  both  the  poison 
and  the  antidote.  The  idea  of  an  infallible 
remedy  for  our  trials  is  an  illusion.  We  should 
avail  ourselves  of  all  possible  means,  and  think 
of  nothing  in  practical  life  but  the  amelioration 
of  manners,  and  reconciliation  of  interests. 
France  is  in  her  death-agony  ;  that  is  certain  : 
we  are  all  sick,  corrupt,  ignorant,  discouraged. 
To  sa}^  that  this  must  be,  that  it  always  has  been 
and  always  will  be,  is  to  repeat  the  fable  of  the 


LOVE-  UNREASONING.  63 

schoolmaster  and  the  drowning  child  ;  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  It  makes  no  difference  to  me."  But 
if  you  add,  "  It  does  not  concern  me,"  you  are 
mistaken.  The  deluge  comes,  and  death  seizes  us  : 
it  would  be  in  vain  to  use  prudence,  and  with- 
draw. Your  place  of  shelter  will  be  destroyed  in 
its  turn ;  while  perishing  with  the  rest  of  human 
civilization,  you  will  not  be  more  philosophical 
for  not  having  loved,  than  those  who  have  leaped 
into  the  water  to  save  some  wreck  of  humanity. 
These  wrecks  are  not  worth  the  trouble.  Per- 
haps so.  They  wiU  perish  none  the  less,  and  we 
shall  perish  with  them :  that  is  certain ;  but  we 
shall  die  in  the  full  vigor  of  life.  I  should  prefer 
this  to  a  winter  amidst  the  ice,  or  a  death  in 
anticipation ;  besides,  I  could  not  do  otherwise. 
Love  does  not  use  reason.  If  I  should  ask  you 
why  you  have  a  fondness  for  study,  you  could  not 
give  me  a  better  explanation  than  could  an  indo- 
lent person  why  he  was  fond  of  idleness. 

Do  you  think  my  mind  disordered,  that  you 
preach  isolation  ?  You  say  that  you  have  read 
pieces  about  me  in  the  newspapers,  indicating  a 
sudden  change  in  my  ideas,  and  that  these  news- 
papers, which  seem  friendly  towards  me,  try  to 
believe  that  this  has  been  brought  about  by  some 


64  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

new  gleam  of  light ;  while  others,  which  do  not 
mention  my  name,  suppose,  perhaps,  that  I  have 
deserted  the  cause  of  the  future.  Let  politicians 
think  and  say  what  they  like.  Leave  them  to 
their  critical  appreciations.  I  have  no  objection 
to  make,  no  answer  to  offer.  The  public  has  other 
than  my  personal  interests  to  discuss.  I  hold  a 
pen,  and  I  have  an  honorable  position,  free  to  dis- 
cussion, in  one  of  our  leading  papers.  If  I  have 
been  misinterpreted,  it  rests  with  me  to  make  an 
explanation  when  the  opportunity  offers.  I  avoid, 
as  far  as  possible,  all  mention  of  myself  as  a 
private  individual ;  but,  if  ^ou  think  me  converted 
to  false  notions,  I  must  say  to  j'ou,  as  to  all  others 
who  take  an  interest  in  me :  Read  all  that  I  have 
to  say,  and  do  not  judge  from  detached  fragments. 
The  mind  independent  of  party  exigencies  sees 
necessarily  the  pro  and  the  con;  and  the  sincere 
writer  gives  both  without  regard  to  the  blame  or 
praise  of  his  interested  readers.  Every  sensible 
being  clings  to  synthesis,  and  I  believe  I  have  not 
let  go  my  hold.  Reason  and  feeling  combined 
prompt  me  to  reject  every  thing  that  would  lead 
us  back  to  childhood,  in  politics,  in  religion,  in 
philosophy,  or  in  art.  My  feelings  and  my  reason 
oppose,  more  than  ever,  the  idea  of  fictitious  dis- 


OPEN  TO  PITT.  65 

tinctions,  the  inequality  of  conditions  imposed  as 
a  right  acquired  by  some,  as  a  forfeiture  deserved 
by  others.  More  than  ever,  I  feel  the  need  of 
raising  what  is  low,  and  lifting  what  has  fallen. 

While  my  heart  exists  it  will  be  open  to  pity, 
and  will  take  the  part  of  the  weak  and  calumni- 
ated. If  to-day  it  is  the  down-trodden  people,  I 
will  offer  them"  my  hand.  If  it  is  the  oppressor 
and  executioner,  I  will  tell  him  that  he  is  cowardly 
and  hateful.  What  do  I  care  for  this  or  that 
group  of  men,  those  proper  names  which  have 
become  ensigns,  or  those  personal  remarks  which 
stand  for  watchwords?  I  make  a  distinction 
only  between  the  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  inno- 
cent and  the  guilty.  I  do  not  inquire  where  are 
my  friends,  and  where  my  enemies.  They  remain 
wherever  the  storm  has  thrown  them.  Those  who 
have  deserved  my  ajffection,  yet  cannot  see  with 
my  eyes,  I  hold  none  the  less  dear.  The  incon- 
siderate blame  of  those  who  forsake  me  does  not 
make  me  consider  them  my  enemies.  All  friend- 
ship unjustly  withdrawn  remains  intact  within  the 
heart  that  has  not  deserved  such  an  outrage. 
That  heart  is  above  self-love  :  it  can  wait  for  the 
revival  of  justice  and  affection. 

Sucli    is    the    u})right  and    easy   course   of   a 


66  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

conscience  which  does  not  allow  personal  inter- 
ests to  conflict  with  party  interests.  Those  who 
cannot  say  as  much  of  themselves  will  certainly 
meet  with  success,  if  they  have  the  talent  to 
avoid  giving  displeasure ;  and,  the  greater  degree 
to  which  they  possess  this  talent,  the  greater 
will  be  the  opportunity  for  satisfying  their  pas- 
sions. But  do  not  call  them  into  history  as  wit- 
nesses for  absolute  truth.  The  moment  that  they 
make  their  opinion  a  matter  of  business,  that 
moment  their  opinion  is  worthless. 

I  know  mild,  generous,  and  timorous  natures, 
that,  in  the  terrible  epoch  of  our  history,  have 
reproached  themselves  for  having  loved  and 
served  the  cause  of  the  weak.  They  see  but  a 
single  point  in  space.  They  believe  that  the 
"  people,"  whom  they  loved  and  served,  exist  no 
longer,  because,  in  their  place,  a  horde  of  bandits, 
followed  by  a  little  army  of  misguided  men, 
have  taken  momentary  possession  of  the  scene 
of  contest.  It  requires  an  effort  for  these  good 
souls  to  beheve  that  all  that  was  righteous  and 
interesting  in  the  poor  and  disinherited  exists 
there  still ;  only  it  is  not  apparent  because  politi- 
cal commotion  has  driven  it  from  the  scene. 
When    such    dramas  are  performed,   those   who 


THE   DOWNFALL   OF   GERMANY.  67 

gladly  and  voluntarily  join  in  them  are  the  vain 
and  covetous  ones  of  the  famih' ;  those  who 
allow  themselves  to  be  dragged  in  are  the  idiots. 
That  there  are  millions  of  covetous,  idiotic,  and 
vain  people  in  France,  no  one  doubts ;  but  there 
are  just  as  many,  and  perhaps  more,  iu  other 
countries.  Let  an  opportunity  occur  similar  to 
those  which  too  frequently  arouse  our  evil  pas- 
sions, and  you  will  see  if  other  nations  are  better 
than  we.  Interfere  with  the  Germanic  race, 
whose  disciplinary  aptitude  we  so  much  admire, 
but  whose  armies  liave  just  exhibited  brutal  appe- 
tites mingled  with  their  barbarous  simplicity,  and 
you  will  see  their  exasperation.  The  insurgents 
of  Paris  would  appear  sober  and  virtuous  in 
comparison. 

But  this  is  not  an  atom  of  consolation.  The 
German  nation  will  be  as  much  an  object  of  pity 
for  her  victories  as  we  for  our  defeats ;  for  they 
are  the  first  step  towards  her  moral  dissolution. 
The  drama  of  her  overthrow  has  commenced ; 
and,  as  she  is  working  at  it  with  her  own  hands, 
it  will  make  rapid  progress.  All  great  material 
organizations,  where  right,  justice,  and  respect  for 
humanity  are  disregarded,  are  colossals  of  clay. 
We   have   obtained  this  knowledge   at  our  cost. 


68  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

"Well,  the  moral  degradatiou  of  Germany  is  not 
the  future  salvation  of  France;  and,  should  we 
feel  called  upon  to  retaliate  the  evil  which  it  has 
done  to  us,  its  destruction  would  not  restore  us 
to  life.  It  is  not  by  blood  that  nations  renew 
their  strength  and  become  rejuvenated.  The 
breath  of  life  may  yet  arise  from  the  corpse  of 
France :  that  of  Germany  will  be  a  centre  of 
pestilence  for  all  Europe.  A  nation  that  has  lost 
its  ideal  cannot  survive  its  faculties.  Its  death 
is  unproductive ;  and  those  who  breathe  its  fetid 
emanations  contract  the  same  mortal  disease. 
Poor  Germany!  The  cup  of  the  Almighty's 
anger  is  poured  upon  thee  as  well  as  upon  us ; 
and,  while  thou  art  rejoicing  and  growing  intox- 
icated, the  philosophic  mind  is^  weeping  over 
thy  situation,  and  preparing  thy  epitaph.  This 
wounded  being,  pale  and  bleeding,  which  is 
called  France,  still  holds  in  its  shrivelled  hands 
a  skirt  of  the  starry  coat  of  the  future,  whilst 
thou  enfoldest  thyself  in  a  sullied  flag  which 
will  serve  for  thy  winding-sheet.  Past  greatness 
holds  no  place  in  the  history  of  men.  It  is  all 
over  with  kings  who  impose  upon  the  people ; 
it  is  all  over  with  the  people  imposed  upon,  if 
they  consent  to  their  own  degradation. 


THE  BROTHERHOOD   OF  LOVE.  69 

That  is  why  we  are  so  ill,  and  why  my 
heart  is  broken. 

It  is  not  with  a  feeling  of  contempt  that  I 
behold  our  misery.  I  am  unwilling  to  believe 
that  this  holy  country,  this  cherished  nation, 
whose  ever}-  chord,  harmonious  or  discordant,  I 
feel  vibrate  within  myself ;  for  whose  good  quali- 
ties, and  defects  even,  I  have  an  affection  ;  whose 
responsibilities,  good  or  bad,  I  consent  to  accept, 
rather  than  extricate  myself  through  disdain,  — 
I  am  unwilling  to  believe  that  my  country  and 
my  nation  are  death-struck.  I  feel  it  in  my 
suffering,  in  my  hours  of  deep  dejection ;  but  I 
love,  so  I  live.     Let  us  love  and  live. 

Frenchmen,  let  us  love  one  another  !  Yes,  let 
us  love  one  another,  or  we  are  lost.  Let  us 
abjure,  annihilate  poUtics,  since  they  have  caused 
division,  and  armed  one  against  another.  Let  us 
ask  no  one  what  he  was,  or  what  he  wished 
yesterday.  Then  every  one  was  mistaken ;  let  us 
find  out  what  we  wish  to-day.  If  it  is  not  to  be 
liberty  and  fraternity  for  all,  let  us  not  seek  to 
solve  the  problem  of  equality.  We  are  not 
worthy  of  explaining  it,  nor  capable  of  under- 
standing it.  Ef[uality  is  not  olitrusive.  It  is  a 
free  plant,  which  grows  only  in  fertile  soil  and 


70  /MPRESSiONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

salubrious  air.  It  does  not  take  root  upon  barri- 
cades,—  "we  knoAV  that  now, — for  it  is  immedi- 
ately trampled  down  by  the  conqueror,  whoever 
he  may  be.  Let  us  seek  to  ingraft  it  into  our 
manners,  and  consecrate  it  in  our  minds.  Let  us 
give  it,  for  a  starting-point,  patriotic  charity,  love. 
It  is  folly  to  believe  that  men  go  forth  from  battle 
with  respect  for  human  rights.  Every  civil  war 
has  engendered  and  will  engender  crime.  Un- 
happy Internationality !  is  it  true  that  thou  hast 
faith  in  the  illusion  that  force  surpasses  right? 
If  thou  art  as  numerous  and  powerful  as  is  sup- 
posed, is  it  possible  that  thou  professest  hatred 
and  destruction  to  be  a  part  of  thy  duty  ?  No  : 
thy  power  is  a  phantom  of  fear.  An  assemblage 
of  men  from  all  nations  could  not  deliberate  and 
act  from  principles  of  iinquity.  If  thou  art  the 
ferocious  part  of  the  European  nation,  something 
like  the  Anabaptists  of  Miinster,  like  them,  thou 
wilt  be  thy  own  destruction.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
thou  art  a  great  and  legitimate  fraternal  associa- 
tion, thy  duty  is  to  enlighten  adepts,  and  to  re- 
nounce those  who  degrade  and  compromise  thy 
cause.  I  would  still  believe  that  there  are  in  thy 
midst  a  large  number  of  humane  and  hard-work- 
ing men,  who  are   distressed   and   blush   to   see 


THE    VOICE   OF  TRUTH.  71 

bandits  using  tliy  name.  In  this  case,  thy  si- 
lence is  cowardly  and  out  of  place.  Hast  thou 
not  a  single  member  capable  of  protesting  against 
ignoble  attempts,  idiotic  principles,  and  furious 
madness?  Thy  elect,  thy  administrators,  thy 
leaders,  —  are  they  all  brigands  or  madmen?  No  ! 
that  cannot  be.  There  is  no  assemblage  of  men 
whatever  where  the  voice  of  truth  cannot  make 
itself  heard.  Speak  then,  justify  thyself,  pro- 
claim thy  gospel.  If  discord  is  in  thy  midst, 
dissolve  and  be  reconstructed.  Appeal  to  the 
future,  if  thou  art  not  an  ancient  invasion  of 
barbarians.  Tell  those  who  still  love  the  people 
what  they  ought  to  do  ;  and  if  thou  hast  nothing 
to  say,  if  the  iniquity  of  thy  mysteries  is  sealed 
by  fear,  renounce  noble  sympathy,  feed  on  the 
scorn  of  Honest  souls,  and  struggle  between  the 
jailer  and  tlie  gendarme. 

All  France  has  been  waiting  for  the  word  which 
should  decide  thy  destiny,  and  perhaps  her  own. 
She  has  waited  in  vain.  I,  too,  have  innocently 
been  waiting.  While  condemning  the  means,  T 
do  not  wish  to  forejudge  the  end.  Every  revolu- 
tion has  some  aim  ;  and  tliose  which  fail  have  not 
always  the  weakest  foiuidations.  Political  fanati- 
cism seems  to  have  been  the  first  feeling  in  this* 


72  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 


strueole.  These  lost  cliildren  of  the  democratic 
army  refused  an  inevitable  peace,  perhaps,  be- 
cause they  felt  it  to  be  disgraceful.-  Paris  had 
sworn  to  be  buried  beneath  its  ruins.  The  demo- 
cratic people  meant  to  force  the  bourgeois  people 
to  keep  their  word.  They  seized  the  cannons,  and 
turned  them  asraiust  the  Prussians.  It  was  a  mad 
proceeding.  The  first  act  of  the  Commune  was 
to  preserve  peace ;  and,  in  the  whole  course  of  its 
administration,  it  has  not  offered  the  enemy  an 
insult  nor  a  threat ;  but  it  committed  the  noto- 
rious, dastardly  act  of  overthrowing,  under  its 
very  eyes,  the  column  perpetuating  the  enemy's 
defeats  and  our  victories.  It  objects  to  the  power 
arising  from  universal  suffrage,  and,  yet  availed 
itself  of  that  suffrage,  at  Paris,  for  its  own  consti- 
tution. It  is  true  that  this  was  needed.  It  has 
discarded  the  appearance  of  legality  which  it 
tried  to  assume,  and  acts  by  brute  force,  without 
seeking  any  other  claim  than  that  of  hatred  and 
contempt,  for  every  thing  that  is  not  a  part  of 
itself.  It  proclaims  practical  social  science,  de- 
claring itself  sole  depositary,  but  does  not  make 
mention  of  it  in  its  decisions  and  decrees.  It 
declares  that  it  has  come  to  deliver  man  from 
his  fetters  and  prejudices ;  and  then  immediately 


THE   COMMUNE.  73 

exercises  absolute  power,  and  threatens  with 
death  whomsoever  is  not  convinced  of  its  infalli- 
bility. At  the  same  time  that  it  pretends  to 
return  to  the  tradition  of  the  Jacobins,  it  usurps 
social  papac}^  and  arrogates  the  dictatorship. 
What  kind  of  a  republic  is  that  ?  I  see  nothing 
vital  or  rational,  nothing  constitutional,  nor  any- 
thing that  could  be  made  constitutional.  It  is 
an  orgy  of  pretended  renovators,  who  have  not 
an  idea  nor  a  principle,  not  the  slightest  serious 
organization,  not  the  slightest  coalition  with  the 
nation,  not  the  least  confidence  in  the  future. 
Ignorance,  impudence,  and  brutality,  —  that  is  all 
that  has  sprung  from  this  pretended  social  revo- 
lution. Unrestraint  of  the  lowest  impulses,  the 
impotence  of  shameless  ambitions,  the  scandal  of 
audacious  usurpations,  —  that  is  the  scene  which 
we  have  just  witnessed.  So  this  Commune  has 
inspired  mortal  disgust  in  the  most  zealous  politi- 
cal men,  those  most  devoted  to  democracy.  After 
useless  attempts,  they  have  learned  that  there  can 
be  no  reconcUialion  where  there  arc  no  principles. 
So  they  have  withdrawn  in  grief  and  consterna- 
tion ;  and,  the  next  day,  the  Commune  has  pro- 
nounced them  traitors,  and  given  orders  for  their 
arrest.  It  would  have  shot  them,  if  they  had 
remained  within  its  reach. 


74  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

And  you  wish  me,  my  friend,  to  look  upon 
these  things  with  stoical  indifference !  Do  you 
wish  me  to  say,  "  Man  is  so  constituted ;  crime 
is  the  expression  of  his  feehngs ;  infamy,  his 
nature  "  ? 

No,  decidedly  no.  Humanity  is  indignant  with- 
in me  and  at  me.  This  indignation  is  one  of  the 
most  passionate  forms  of  love  :  we  must  not  conceal 
it,  nor  try  to  forget  it.  We  must  exert  immense 
efforts  towards  fraternity,  in  order  to  repair  the 
ravages  of  hatred.  "We  must  exorcise  the  scourge, 
crush  infamy  beneath  contempt,  and,  through  faith, 
inaugurate  the  resurrection  of  our  country. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    PtHSTCTUATION.  —  TO 
CHAELES    EDMOND. 

NOHANT,  August,  1871. 

TOU  ask  me,  my  friend,  why  I  insist  on  not 
having   my   punctuation    corrected   at   the 
printing-office.     I  will  try  to  give  you  my  reasons. 

Punctuation,  as  well  as  style,  has  its  own  phi- 
losophy. I  do  not  say,  as  well  as  language.  Style 
is  language  clearly  understood:  punctuation  is 
style  clearly  understood. 

There  are  absolute  rules  for  language,  as  also  for 
punctuation.  Style  ought  to  yield  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  language,  and  punctuation  to  the  exigencies 
of  style.  I  deny  that  it  is  immediately  dependent 
on  grammatical  rules.  I  maintain  that  it  ought  to 
be  more  elastic,  and  be  subjected  to  no  absolute 
rule. 

There  is  an  abundance  of  good  treatises  on 
punctuation,  which  ought  to  be  read,  and  used  as 
occasion  demands,  but  not  submitted  to  with 
servility. 

76 


76  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

It  lias  been  said,  "  The  style  is  the  man."  Punc- 
tuation is  even  more  the  man  than  style.  It  is  the 
intonation  of  speech  translated  by  signs  of  the 
highest  importance.  A  fine  page  poorly  punctu- 
ated is  incomprehensible  to  the  sight :  a  good  dis- 
course is  incomprehensible  to  the  ear  if  delivered 
without  punctuation,  and  disagreeable  if  the  punc- 
tuation be  bad.  The  instinct  of  the  intelligent 
orator  is  a  sure  guide.  Without  being  obliged  to 
have  recourse  to  any  written  rale,  he  understands 
how  to  divide  his  sentence,  suspending  the  sense, 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  making  it  evident  that  it  is 
not  complete  ;  knows  where  to  pause  in  a  period 
of  unusual  length,  and  how  to  prolong  that  pause 
beyond  the  laws  of  moderation  by  accenting  in 
such  a  n>anner  as  to  secure  the  attention  that  the 
sentence  demands.  A  discourse  well  delivered, 
a  theatrical  part  well  rendered,  ought  to  fiunish 
the  most  reliable  rules  for  written  punctuation. 

The  actor  often  errs  for  want  of  this  knowl- 
edge. He  needs  a  great  amount  of  skill,  espe- 
cially in  classic  verse,  to  vary  his  intonation,  that 
neither  the  ear  nor  the  mind  may  be  fatigued  by 
its  monotony ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  preserve 
the  sense,  literary  or  philosophical.  A  few  are  so 
overpowered    by   this  difficulty   that    they  give 


CHARACTER  IN  ELOCUTION.  77 

utterance  to  exclamations  which  destroy  the 
measure  of  the  verse.  Even  at  the  "  Thdatre 
Frangais  "  one  often  hears  false  verse. 

Rachel,  at  the  commencement  of  her  career, 
neither  spoke  correctly  nor  punctuated  well. 
She  overcame  this  fault,  and  reached  the  apogee 
of  her  talent ;  then,  by  dint  of  study,  she  passed 
the  goal,  and,  in  trying  for  too  great  effect,  over- 
punctuated  her  intonations. 

If  you  wish  to  account  for  excess  of  punctua- 
tion, examine  the  character  of  a  man  in  reference 
to  his  manner  of  speech.  If  he  weighs  every 
word,  if  he  gives  an  equal  value  to  all  his 
phrases,  if  he  measures  accurately  each  member, 
you  will  immediately  be  impressed  with  the  idea, 
that  this  man  thinks  too  much  of  himself,  that  he 
attributes  an  exaggerated  importance  to  his  own 
assertions,  tliat  he  is  positive,  vain,  and  despotic. 
A  man  so  in  love  with  his  own  sayings  will  suffer 
no  contradiction,  nor  permit  any  opposition.  If 
he  writes,  his  punctuation  will  produce  the  same 
impression  as  his  delivery.  He  will  make  an 
abuse  of  periods  and  commas,  and  will  overload 
his  style  with  incidental  phrases,  consequently 
abound  in  parentheses  and  dashes. 

He  who  abuses  exclamation-points  is  a  power- 


78  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

less  speaker :  that  is  obvious.  He  who  suppresses 
them  entirely,  and  always  turns  his  periods  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  avoid  their  use,  is  affected, 
thouo'h  in  a  different  manner.  He  is  afraid  either 
of  yielding  to  his  feelings,  or  being  suspected  of 
emotion.  In  conversation,  his  criticism  is  harsh, 
his  reasoning  cold,  and  his  joke  rough. 

The  error  into  which  Rachel  fell  towards  the 
close  of  her  glorious  career  is  the  general  failing 
of  the  actors  at  the  "  Theatre  Fran9ais,"  and 
perhaps  the  inevitable  result  of  the  studies  at  the 
Conservatoire.  These  studies  are  excellent  and 
necessary  ;  but  one  should  be  able  to  pass  beyond 
them,  when  he  has  reached  a  certain  height  of 
talent.  Delivery,  and  what  I  shall  call  spoken 
punctuation,  are  so  intimately  connected  with 
the  mimicry  of  actors,  and  of  the  general  orator, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  use  tlie  slightest  exaggera- 
tion without  affecting  the  entire  aspect  of  the 
individual.  The  least  comma  produces  a  vibra- 
tion of  the  body,  or  a  change  in  the  physiognomy. 
The  exclamation  -  point  and  the  interrogation- 
point  have  their  corresponding  expression  in  the 
face  or  the  gesture.  The  too  frequent  use  of 
these  fatigues  the  hearer,  and  gives  rise  to  a 
strange  monotony  resulting  from  excess  of  vari- 


ELOQUENCE  AND  LYRICISM.  79 

ety.  This  science  of  particularization,  which,  at 
the  "  Th<:jatre  Francais,"  has  reached  perfection, 
must  be  extremely  satisfactory  to  the  illiterate  and 
to  the  foreigner,  both  needing  this  slight  aid  to 
enable  them  to  understand  a  language  with  every 
particular  of  which  they  are  not  familiar ;  but,  to 
the  man  of  true  appreciation  and  quick  intellect, 
this  setting  forth  of  the  members  of  a  period 
is  annoying,  sometimes  painful.  One  needs  to 
breathe  from  well-filled  lungs,  when  entering  the 
precincts  of  the  beautiful.  Great  eloquence  is 
easy  and  abundant ;  great  lyricism  needs  no 
pause  :  it  is  not  out  of  breath.  The  latter  flows 
like  a  river  :  the  former  rushes  like  a  torrent.  If 
an  incidental  phrase  slips  into  lyricism,  it  must 
enhance  its  beauty.  It  is  like  the  wave  that 
dashes  against  the  rock,  becoming  broken  for  an 
instant,  but  receiving  renewed  energy  for  its 
departure.  In  such  a  case,  the  suspended  burst 
is  an  excellent  thing;  but  if,  even  with  much 
aljility,  you  insist  on  allowing  an  equal  value  to 
every  thing  that  can  form,  as  it  were,  an  angle  of 
incidence,  you  destroy  the  primary  effect  for  the 
benefit  of  secondary  effects  which  it  would  have 
been  much  better  to  sacrifice.  You  obtain  the 
glitter  which  destroys  the  harmony  of  form  and 
the  logic  of  thought. 


80  IJfPRESSTONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

To  return  to  written  punctuation :  in  certain 
places  the  text  should  not  be  overloaded,  and  in 
others  there  should  be  a  bountiful  supply.  A 
correct  distribution  of  stops  requu'es  tact;  and 
that  is  why  I  prefer  no  absolute  rules.  In  a 
dialogue  between  persons  of  different  character, 
for  example,  I  should  vary  the  punctuation  with 
the  expressions.  In  a  rapid  narration  I  should 
make  few  pauses ;  even  in  a  simple  statenjent  I 
should  not  cut  up  into  phrases  what  is  merely  a 
collection  of  phrases  tending  to  the  same  idea. 
If  there  is  the  least  research  or  obscurity  in  an 
explanation,  it  can  be  made  more  lucid  by  a  very 
grammatical  punctuation.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
you  speak  of  things  which  every  one  can  under- 
stand by  a  hint,  do  not  give  them  an  impor- 
tance which  they  do  not  deserve.  Hasten  to  the 
point  in  question,  whether  by  written  or  spoken 
word. 

These  shades  of  difference  are  not  within  the 
province  of  the  proof-reader.  A  good  proof- 
reader is  a  perfect  grammarian,  and  he  often 
knows  his  business  much  better  than  we  know 
ours ;  but  when  we  do  know  it,  and  have  our 
own  reasons,  the  proof-reader  proves  only  an 
obstacle.     He  cannot  be  governed  by  feeling ;  he 


A  FEW  INNOVATIONS.  81 

would  have  too  much  to  do  if  he  entered  into  the 
feeHngs  of  each  one  of  us  ;  but,  when  he  has  to 
correct  our  proofs  after  us,  he  shoukl  let  every 
one  take  the  responsibility  of  his  own  punctua- 
tion, as  he  does  that  of  style.  He  would  make  a 
mistake  if,  wishing  to  conform  to  our  idea,  he 
should  punctuate  a  certain  page  in  accordance 
with  what  seemed  to  him  our  views  in  another 
page.  Instinctively  or  from  reason,  the  same 
writer  may  take  different  courses  with  forms  that 
are  analogous,  but  differ  in  their  fundamental 
points.  Although  you  may  have  been  very 
grammatical  in  some  matter-of-fact  piece,  you  do 
not  feel  oljliged  to  be  so  where  the  subject 
demands  pathos.  If  your  style  is  clear,  it  can  do 
without  this  second  explanation  of  rigid  punc- 
tuation. 

Punctuation  ought  to  be  used  more  to  facilitate 
the  first  reading,  than  to  give  satisfaction  as  to 
rules  at  a  second  reading.  There  are  a  few  inno- 
vations that  might  be  introduced  into  our  method. 
For  example  :  it  is  sometimes  difficult  to  know, 
at  the  commencement  of  a  sentence,  whether  it  be 
interrogative  or  affirmative  :  either  the  eye  must 
run  ahead,  or  the  reader  must  rejieat.  It  would 
be  more  convenient  to  follow  the  Spanish  method, 


82  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

and  place  the  interrogation-point  at  the  head 
instead  of  the  tail  of  the  sentence.^ 

In  verse,  punctuation  is  meaningless  while  we 
continue  to  begin  every  line  with  a  capital. 
Wherefore  this  routine  that  dazzles  both  the  eye 
and  the  mind  ? 

It  is  so  difficult  to  fix  upon  any  arbitrary  laws 
for  punctuation,  that  every  one  has  his  own 
method ;  and  even  proof-readers  do  not  agree 
among  themselves  with  regard  to  certain  signs. 
Punctuation  is  an  improvement  in  language,  of 
rather  recent  origin.  Our  ancient  masters  punc- 
tuated their  manuscripts  very  little  or  not  at  all : 
so  the  editors  who  have  corrected  the  ancient 
editions  of  the  classics  have  acted  according  to 
their  own  taste.  Therefore,  in  order  to  establish 
a  more  or  less  free  and  individual  style  of  punc- 
tuation, we  can  refer  only  to  modern  authors  ;  and 
several  among  these,  attaching  no  importance 
perhaps  to  this  detail,  do  not  care  to  be  regarded 
as  authority.  This  is  to  be  regretted;  for  we 
might  derive  from  them  some  valuable  informa- 
tion, of  which,  for  my  own  part,  I  should  be  glad 
to  avail  myself. 

1  The  grammar  of  grammars  agrees  with  me  in  regard  to 
this  innovation. 


SOME  AUTHORS   CRITICISED.  83 

I  do  not  know  wlietlier  M.  Miclielet  carefully 
corrects  his  own  proofs,  or  whether  the  proof- 
readers pass  over  his  stops  and  marks ;  but  he  is 
strangely  lavish  of  punctuation.  His  style  is  very 
abrupt,  the  result  of  power  and  enthusiasm.  So 
much  the  more  reason  for  not  making  it  needless- 
ly abrupt.  Any  one  reading  his  works  aloud 
according  to  their  punctuation  would  have  the 
appearance  of  being  asthmatic. 

The  punctuation  of  Louis  Blanc  is  very  correct, 
but  too  uniformly  correct,  and  always  abiding  by 
the  same  law  of  composition. 

M.  Thiers  is  freer  in  liis  manner,  and,  probably 
without  being  aware  of  it,  is  solving  a  great 
problem,  —  that  of  abundant  punctuation  without 
allowing  its  copiousness  to  l)ecome  appai-ent. 
Thdophile  Gautier  uses  more  commas  than  are 
necessary  for  a  st3le  perfect  in  its  construction. 
He  follows  the  example  of  Victor  Hugo,  whose 
exceeding  clearness  ought  not  to  suffer  the  impu- 
tation of  so  many  signs. 

I  do  not  kny  w  whether  Alexandre  Dumas,  sen., 
punctuated  his  own  manuscripts  and  corrected  his 
own  proof-sheets.  At  any  rate,  they  needed  to  bo 
punctuated  again.  His  epistles  contained  neither 
commas  nor  periods  :  his  t's  were  not  crossed,  his 


84  JMPJiESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

i's  not  dotted,  and  he  scorned  the  use  of  the  apos- 
trophe. His  writing  was  like  hieroglyphics, 
although  he  was  one  of  the  finest  penmen  in  the 
world.  On  the  contrary,  the  simplest  letters  of 
M.  de  Lamennais  might  have  passed,  at  the  print- 
ing-office, for  corrected  proofs. 

Sometimes  I  receive  letters  miserable  in  orthog- 
raphy, but  well  Avorded,  and  punctuated  as  if 
punctuation  were  a  peculiar  instinct.  Some  I 
receive,  otherwise  irreproachable,  but  punctuated 
so  fantastically  as  to  be  rendered  very  obscure. 
To  simplify  punctuation  as  much  as  possible 
would  make  it  easier  to  remember :  so  I  think  it 
should  be  simplified.  In  many  cases  this  could  be 
easily  done.  The  comma  preceding  and  is,  as  a 
general  thing,  useless.  She  dressed  herself,  and 
then  went  out.  Why  not,  She  dressed  herself  and 
then  went  out  ?  I  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  to 
dress  and  to  go  out  are  two  separate  actions  :  I 
need,  rather,  to  feel  that  they  are  two  actions 
united  in  a  common  end.  Many  commas  placed 
before  which  are  superfluous.  He  approached  the 
lamp,  which  was  going  out.  I  confided  the  message 
to  this  man,  who  appeared  to  he  honest.  This 
friend,  ivho  deceives  and  flatters  me,  is  your  friend 
too.     These   commas,  which   abound  in   editions 


ENGLISH   PREFERABLE   TO   FRENCH.  85 

both  well  and  badly  corrected,  are  ,  useless  and 
tiresome. 

Perhaps  you  think  I  attach  too  much  impor- 
tance to  a  detail  about  which  few  persons  trouble 
themselves.  Am  I  wrong  in  feeling  that  we 
ought  early  to  acquire  the  habit  of  having  a 
reason  for  all  that  we  do  and  all  that  we  write  ? 
There  are  contingencies  enough  in  life,  which  are 
unavoidable,  without  our  yielding  to  them  volun- 
tarily. There  will  be  times  when,  from  fatigue,  or 
press  of  business,  we  shall  fail  in  our  resolutions 
or  habits.  There  is  no  danger,  if  we  are  earnest 
in  our  feelings,  of  our  existence  becoming  cold 
and  methodical ;  but,  rather,  of  our  being  drawn 
into  tlie  opposite  extreme.  Then  our  only  course 
would  be  to  exert  a  little  control  over  our  feel- 
ings, and,  as  soon  as  possible,  seize  from  the  sliip- 
wreck  of  our  joys  the  waif  of  reason. 

Since  we  have  devoted  this  conversation  to 
pedagogism,  permit  me  to  ask  —  you  who  are 
better  acquainted  with  French  than  most  of  us  — 
if  you  consider  our  language  clearer  than  all 
others.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  not  of  that 
opinion.  It  clings  too  closely  to  the  Latin,  a  dead 
huiguage,  and  one  not  suited  to  oiu-  forms  and 
manners.     The  construction  of  onis  is  too  simple.'. 


86  lAfPEESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

I  prefer  the  English  with  its  odious  souuds,  and 
distortions  of  the  mouth,  its  hissings  and  drawl- 
ing gutturals.  It  is  a  language  well  fitted  for 
malformed  mouths  and  defective  throats,  charac- 
teristics of  the  race ;  but  it  is  a  language  clear, 
energetic,  regular,  to  the  point,  and  as  well 
adapted  as  ours  to  express  different  shades  of 
meaning. 

By  a  few  innovations  we  might  give  to  written 
French  a  little  more  logic  and  clearness.  I  know 
that  this  is  forbidden  ground ;  but  I  have  never 
written  a  grammar,  so  have  the  privilege  of  criti- 
cism. I  have  no  right  to  simplify  the  language ; 
but  I  believe  that  it  will  simplif}^  itself  by  the 
inevitable  admission  of  the  classes  called  illiterate 
into  the  direct  advance  of  the  hourgeoise  class, 
which  is  not  very  well  versed  in  French  on  leav- 
ing college.  What  constitutes  the  beauty  and 
solidity  of  the  language  will  struggle  successfully 
against  an  invasion  of  barbarians ;  but  the  super- 
fluities, the  work  of  pedantry,  will,  I  hope,  disap- 
pear. Already  our  young  peasants  are  beginning 
to  speak  more  simply. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TJNIVEKSAl,    SUFFBAGE.  —  EEPLY    TO    A    LADY 

FBIEND. 

NoHANT,  October,  1871. 

I  KNOW  that  cultivated  persons,  men  of  letters 
and  artists  are,  like  you,  dreading  the  social 
consequences  of  universal  suffrage,  which  forms  the 
engrossing  topic  of  the  day.  In  answer  to  your 
reproach,  I  will  make  a  summary  of  the  objections 
which  appear  to  me  on  this  subject,  calling  upon 
the  public  for  judgment,  because  such  questions 
interest  every  one,  and  ought  not  to  be  confined 
to  the  domain  of  privacy. 

All  objections  to  universal  suffrage  such  as  is 
practised  to-day  bear  upon  the  present  time  ;  and 
no  one  takes  the  future  into  consideration.  Still 
more,  no  .one  seems  to  realize  the  fact  that  the 
modification  of  this  suffrage  would  certainly 
require  a  revolution,  and  that  the  establishment 
of  it  at  the  time  when  its  establishment  would 
become  necessary  would  involve  another  revolu- 
tion.    It  appears  to  me  that  this  is  not  what  you 

87 


88  lAfPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

desire.  Nevertheless  two  possibilities  of  such 
grave  import  ought  to  demand  some  little  atten- 
tion. An  attempt  to  revise  the  law  of  universal 
suffrage  has  given  us  the  plebiscite  after  the  eoup 
d'etat.  Do  you  think  that  another  attempt  would 
produce  such  a  state  of  affairs  that  no  claimants 
would  arise  to  turn  the  thing  to  their^own  profit  ? 

The  right  of  suffrage  being  a  weapon  for  the 
usurpation  of  power,  I  do  not  see  how  any  one 
could  think  seriously  of  allowing  it,  if  the  desire 
is,  as  with  you,  to  maintain  the  republic. 

The  thoughtlessness  with  which  those  in  your 
circle  (I  mean  in  the  social  class  to  which  you 
belong)  talk  of  incitement  to  this  great  modifica- 
tion of  suffrage  proves  that  they  regard  the  multi- 
tude as  a  vast  flock  of  sheep,  without  voluntary 
action  or  consciousness  of  their  rights.  This  is  a 
great  error,  the  error  of  those  who  live  in  a  gar- 
den of  flowers,  without  ever  having  considered 
what  is  below  the  thin  layer  of  soil  that  nourishes 
their  plants. 

My  comparison  is  true.  Persons  of  refined 
leisure  or  intellectual  labor  live,  as  it  were,  in  a 
garden,  where  the  light,  rich  soil,  w^ell  adajDted  to 
the  riches  of  the  mind,  furnishes  them  with  all 
the  luxuries  of  high  life.     Generous  and  patriotic. 


AN   EARTHLY  PARADISE.  89 

they  would,  no  doubt,  like  to  have  the  whole 
earth  this  Garden  of  Eden,  where  one  could  walk 
in  slippers,  and  where  there  would  be  no  great 
wooden  shoes  to  mar  the  beautiful  effect  of  fresh 
colors  and  sweet  perfumes. 

Under  this  jDaradisian  crust  is  the  brute  earth, 
with  its  mighty  quarries  and  precious  mines,  and, 
still  deeper,  its  formidable  volcanoes.  All  these 
must  have  an  outlet.  I  have  alreadj^  said,  and  I 
repeat,  that  universal  suffrage  —  that  is,  the  ex- 
pression of  the  popular  will,  good  or  bad  —  is  a 
safety-valve,  without  which  we  should  have 
nothing  but  explosions  of  civil  war. 

When  this  marvellous  pledge  of  security  is 
offered  you,  when  you  have  found  this  great 
social  counterpoise,  do  you  wish  to  restrain  and 
parah'ze  it  ?  You  represent  intelligence  ;  and  yet 
you  reject  the  foundation  of  it,  which  is  good 
sense.  You  sincerely  believe  that  a  ladder  of 
votes,  starting  at  ignorance,  would  succeed  in 
making  learning  predominate.  You  have  had 
some  experience  of  this  under  the  bourgeois  reign 
of  Louis  Philippe.  The  privileged  elector  has 
given  you  a  succession  of  assemblies,  with  which 
I  have  seen  you  as  much  irritated  as  you  are  at 
the  present  da}-. 


90  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

I  know  that  certain  means  are  proposed  for 
forcing  ignorance  to  elect  capacity.  One  of  the 
most  practicable,  at  first  view,  is  to  confer  on  a 
certain  class  of  citizens  the  right  to  elect  as  many 
deputies  as  some  other  class,  evidently  more  nu- 
merous. I  have  read  of  so-called  radical  projects, 
in  which  it  has  been  earnestly  requested  that  the 
cities  might  have  a  right  to  private  representa- 
tives, dispensing  with  the  vote  of  the  country 
towns.  The  cause  of  intelligence  has  not  been 
wanting  in  arguments  to  create  this  city-aristoc- 
racy, destined  to  trample  under  foot  the  rights  of 
the  rural  people.  A  strange  inconsistence  of 
jDolitical  passion,  otherwise  called  tlie  art  of  at- 
taining power  by  scorning  the  principles  which 
they  pretend  to  exalt ! 

It  is  quite  time  to  have  done  with  these  guilty 
paradoxes,  which  tend  to  nothing  less  than  re- 
establishing the  reign  of  castes,  thrusting  the 
peasant  into  the  lowest  of  all,  and  holding  him 
there  indefinitely.  What  a  falsehood,  then,  is 
the  republic,  if  it  holds  such  ideas  cheap ! 

Away  with  these  republicans !  Put  them  with 
the  legitimists.  They  are  just  fit  to  act  in 
concert ;  for,  although  the  latter  commenced  by 
acknowledging  the  authority  of  the  general  vote, 


THE  PRINCIPLE   OF  JUSTICE.  91 

they  have  determined  to  suppress  it  the  moment 
it  acts  in  opposition  to  their  wishes.  These  two 
party  extremes  are  being  fatally  urged  on,  by 
their  principles,  towards  the  destruction  of  lib- 
erty. Our  principles  are,  in  their  liands,  merely 
weapons  of  civil  war.  They  call  their  comprom- 
,  ises  and  fluctuations  political  measures.  I  said 
just  now,  and  I  still  insist,  that  pure  politics 
nowadays  are  nothing  more  than  the  art  of 
aggrandizement.  I  feel  for  them  the  great- 
est contempt  that  could  ever  dwell  in  a  human 
breast. 

A  friend  of  mine,  a  man  of  vast  intellect,  — 
I  said  so  before,  and  I  still  think  it,  —  reproaches 
me  for  not  having  a  sufficiently  keen  perception 
of  the  principle  of  justice.  Justice  is  his  ideal, 
and  it  is  a  line  one.  I  flatter  myself  that  it  is 
mine  also ;  but  we  cannot  agree  as  to  its  applica- 
tion. He  tells  me  that  justice  gives  the  power 
into  the  luuids  of  the  most  capable.  Who  can 
deny  that  ?  But  he  believes  in  legal  means  to 
insure  the  reign  of  intelligence;  and  I  deny  that 
it  is  williin  the  province  of  the  Liw  to  enforce 
these  means.  If  the  State  is  to  pronounce  upon 
the  worth  of  iinlJviiliiuls,  \vc  are  in  the  midst 
of  theocracy.     If    the  State  punislies  crime,  and 


92  IMPIiESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

rewards  virtue,  it  is  no  longer  the  reign  of  laws  : 
it  is  a  dictatorsliip  ;  it  is  terror ;  it  is  a  man  or 
an  assemblage  of  men  deciding  what  is  right  and 
what  is  wrong  from  his  or  their  point  of  view, 
imposing  their  own  beliefs,  decreeing  a  mode  of 
worship  according  to  their  liking.  It  is  the  Com- 
mune of  '91  or  that  of  1871.  It  is  also  the  roy- 
alty of  divine  right  putting  heretics  to  death.  In 
fact,  it  is  the  absolute  suppression  of  the  State, 
that  is,  of  the  basis  of  society,  and  what  consti- 
tutes the  right  of  all  and  the  right  of  each. 

Let  us  urge  governments  to  the  encouragement 
of  merit:  they  are  rather  prone  not  to  discern 
it.  Let  us  form  governments  capable  of  recogniz- 
ing, appreciating,  employing,  and  encouraging 
capability.  But  do  not  let  us  believe  in  political 
rights,  making  exceptions  in  favor  of  capacity; 
for  it  will  most  surely  take  advantage  of  this, 
since  it  is  not  always  combined  with  morality.  If 
there  is  justice  in  recognizing  it,  there  would  be 
injustice  in  giving  it  full  sway. 

A  more  austere  school  would  impose  the  most 
difficult  tasks  upon  those  of  greatest  capacity. 
In  his  admirable  writings,  Louis  Blanc  has  repre- 
sented ideal  merit  as  forced  to  serve  society  with- 
out receiving  any  recompense  for  its  services,  —  a 


NATURAL  RIGHTS.  93 

Utopia  of  youth,  which  I  have  experienced,  and  I 
certainly  do  not  repent  of  having  done  so ;  but  it 
will  not  hold  its  ground  against  maturity  of 
reflection.  The  State  cannot  force  any  one  to  do 
what  is  right.  It  is  not  a  person,  better  and  wiser 
than  the  rest  of  us :  it  is  a  contract  which  ought 
to  provide  against  the  encroachment  of  reciprocal 
rights.  Under  the  honorable  title  of  duty^  the 
rights  of  one  man  ought  not  to  be  made  to  yield 
to  any  man  whatsoever. 

Let  us  allow  natural  rights.  That  will  be  suffi- 
cient ;  for  inequality  of  action  is  an  anomaly,  and 
rests  chiefly  upon  inequality  of  education.  The 
State  ought  to  provide  gratuitous  education,  I  will 
not  say  entirely  obligatory,  but  inevitable.  While 
it  sanctions  absolute  liberty  for  material  labor,  it 
cannot  refuse  man  the  means  of  acquiring  employ- 
ment for  hi.s  intellectual  faculties :  this  would  be 
to  deprive  him  of  a  natural  right.  It  is  the 
obvious  duty  of  the  State  to  render  it  possible  for 
us  to  become  equal  in  efficiency.  It  cannot  make 
us  so  ;  but  if  it  create  social  inequalities,  aided  by 
those  of  nature,  it  is  sanctioning  the  most  fearful 
despotism,  and  reviving  the  past.  I  do  not  wish 
the  Academy  of  Sciences  to  say,  as  did  Louis 
XIV.,  "The  State  is  myself."     The  tyranny  of 


94  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

intelligence  does  not  authorize  that  of  follj,  to  be 
sure,  but  it  renders  it  inevitable,  it  gives  rise  to  it 
irresistibly  ;  for  every  abuse  engenders  an  abuse 
exactly  opposite.  History  demonstrates  this  in 
every  page. 

Alas !  the  French  spirit  is  always  the  same, 
—  idle  because  it  is  spontaneous,  easily  wearied 
because  it  is  too  energetic.  There  is  always  that 
need  of  rest  for  the  body,  or  enjoyment  for  the 
mind,  protesting  against  the  cold  and  patient 
impartiality  of  .the  law.  We  do  not  like  to  be 
always  contending.  We  wish  public  officers  to 
protect  our  persons  and  our  houses.  We  find 
that  to  reason  with  the  ignorant  is  to  lose  precious 
time ;  to  labor  for  the  enlightenment  of  the  first 
person  we  meet  is  to  render  ourselves  ridiculous. 
We  converse  with  the  learned,  correspond  with 
the  literary,  and  are  aristocrats  from  head  to  foot. 
We  say  to  society,  "  Deliver  us  from  those  igno- 
ramuses who  cannot  understand  us ;  give  us  a 
representation  like  that  previous  to  '89,  when 
public  affairs  were  dehberated  by  class,  and  not 
by  poll.  That  is  very  equitable  and  quite  repub- 
lican, you  see.  The  radicals  themselves  have 
made  this  request." 

This  law  is  simply  impossible.     These  peasant- 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  MANNERS.  95 

sheep  have  a  will  of  their  own,  to  break  which, 
France  must  again  be  completely  overthrown.  A 
much  simpler  course  would  be  to  intrust  to  the 
progress  of  "manners,  and  change  of  opinion,  the 
responsibility  of  deciding  matters  of  which  these 
alone  are  master  and  judge.  What  you  desire, 
this  risht  of  intelligence  in  the  direction  of  social 
affairs,  no  one  has  authority  to  grant,  but  all  have 
the  power  to  apply.  This  concerns  you,  kings  of 
the  mind,  priests  of  science,  artists,  and  literary 
favorites  of  the  pubhc,  elite  of  France  !  Impose 
upon  yourselves  this  duty  ;  be  stronger  tlian  igno- 
rance, and  prove  your  strength.  Artists,  produce 
chefs-d'oeuvre.  Savants,  make  obvious  and  impor- 
tant discoveries.  Economists  and  legislators,  bring 
light  into  our  political  and  financial  chaos.  Who, 
then,  will  refuse  the  benefits  which  you  hold  in 
your  hands  ? 

These  blessings,  you  say,  are  very  difficult  to 
disseminate.  Every  thing  offers  opposition;  but 
the  principal  impediment  is  the  indifference  of  a 
nation  steeped  in  the  prejudices  and  routines  of 
if^norance.  Then  we  must  educate  it  as  mucli  as 
possible.  In  liclping  it  we  are  lielping  ourselves. 
Let  us  free  ourselves  from  our  own  errors  and 
personal    prejudices,    which    are    numerous    and 


96  '  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

obstinate ;  for  we  are  not  as  strong  as  we  like  to 
believe  when  we  claim  political  preponderance. 
We  must  commence  ourselves  the  education  of 
the  people.  We  are  chiefly  wanting  in  principles 
of  true  justice,  methods  of  true  science,  and 
moral  conditions  of  healthy  inspiration.  We  are 
all  more  or  less  ill,  sceptical  through  too  much 
experience,  or  worn  out  by  too  much  labor.  This 
epoch  is  not  for  the  flight  of  genius.  There  is  no 
separate  race  to  keep  alive  the  sacred  fire  in  a 
temple  when  it  is  extinguished  on  the  hearth- 
stones of  the  sorrowing  city.  We  must  make 
up  our  minds  to  bear  the  present  state  of  things, 
and  wait  for  the  general  awakening.  Let  us  try 
to  be  up  the  first,  but  let  the  dawn  find  us  work- 
ing for  all,  and  not  conspiring  for  a  few. 

The  liberty  of  all,  that  is  to  say,  the  apprecia- 
tion of  each,  alone  has  the  right  and  power  to 
demand  capacity  in  the  intellectual  government 
of  the  masses.  No  constitution  can  or  ought  to 
restrain  the  claims  of  an  idiot  to  become  a  great 
man.  It  is  for  public  opinion  to  do  him  justice  ; 
it  is  for  public  good  sense  to  put  him  in  his  proper 
place.  If  public  opinion  is  also  idiotic,  it  is  our 
own  fault,  after  all ;  and  the  only  remedy  is  to 
devote  ourselves  to  its  correction. 


LOOKING   FOR  AFFECTION.  97 

Ah !  how  much  good  a  little  modesty  and 
self-examination  would  do  us,  were  it  only  to 
reconcile  us  to  those  weak  minds  which  we  regard 
with  such  disdain,  whose  infirmities  are  owing  to 
our  inadequacy !  Do  we  not  in  the  enlightened 
world  form  eminently  unjust  estimations,  make 
cruel  determinations,  exhibit  a  coldly  implacable 
pride  ?  We  feel  these  evil  instincts  in  ourselves. 
Are  you  astonished  that  those  who  have  not  been 
taught  to  reflect  are  barbarians,  when  it  requires 
such  an  effort  in  those  who  do  reflect  to  become 
really  civilized  ? 

My  friend,  I  remember  that,  in  my  youth,  I 
used  to  see  a  poor  young  fool,  with  a  pale  face 
and  a  long  black  beard,  wandering  about  the 
country,  busily  searching  the  bushes,  turning  over 
stones,  and  sometimes  entering  private  grounds, 
and  stooping  over  the  wells.  When  any  oue 
asked  him  what  he  was  looking  for,  he  invariably 
answered,  "  I  am  looking  for  affection." 

What  if  we  should  make  a  little  search  for  it  ? 
if,  instead  of  always  measuring  tlie  distance  be- 
tween a  man  of  learning  aixl  a  fool,  a  literary 
patrician  and  a  slave  of  misery,  we  sliould  search 
for  truth  in  the  peifume  of  the  fields,  or  the 
transparency  of  the  l^rook  '/  i'crhaps  we  might 
]ic;;r  llic  latter  iiiiiiniiir  tlic  word  love. 


98  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Yes,  love^  I  think,  is  the  key  to  the  enigma  of 
the  universe.  Always  to  shoot  forth  again,  to 
grow,  and  cling  to  life,  to  seek  one's  opposite  for 
the  purpose  of  assimilation,  to  he  continually  dis- 
playing the  prodigy  of  mixture  and  combination, 
whence  springs  the  prodigy  of  new  productions, 
—  these  are  the  laws  of  nature.  How  does  it 
happen,  then,  that  invincible  antipathies  exist  in 
the  world  of  thought?  Whence  comes  it  that 
the  mind  rejects,  with  disgust,  mediocrity,  and 
nullity,  as  if  it  feared  to  diminish,  or  become 
poisoned  l)y  their  contact  ?  Is  the  danger  real  ? 
I  think  not.  Has  not  the  mind  always  power 
over  matter  ?  How  much  more  should  a  strong 
mind  have  power  over  a  weak  mind  !  Why  does 
not  every  man  who  has  knowledge  try  to  impart 
it  to  him  who  is  ignorant?  This  would  be  very 
easy,  provided  he  love  that  ignorant  one  because 
he  is  a  man,  and  not  despise  him  because  he  is 
ignorant. 

To  instruct  many,  or  to  give  much  instruction, 
is  difficult,  yet  it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  tlie 
professions  ;  but,  even  if  one  can  devote  himself 
entirely  to  it,  the  effect  is  slow,  the  task  painful. 
Yet  what  useful  thinf^  is  not  lonec  and  difficult 
in  its  realization  ?     We  have  before  us  the  prob- 


THE   EDUCATION   OF   THE   MASSES.  99 

lem  of  the  education  of  the  masses ;  and  we  recoil 
in  fear,  because  it  will  require  much  time,  and 
will  involve  many  disappointments  and  deviations, 
before  a  favorable  result  is  perceptible.  We  pre- 
fer to  say,  "  Deliver  us  from  these  barbarians  so 
hard  to  enlighten.  Suppress  their  initiative  move- 
ments, Mdiich  are  ojBPensive  to  us,  and  their  meet- 
ings, which  are  a  hinderance,  and  deprive  them 
of  political  rights."  Well,  then,  there  will  be  no 
longer  any  need  of  instructing  them.  Reduced 
to  a  state  of  helots,  they  will  have  nothing  to  do 
with  their  rights  or  their  duties.  Society  will  be 
delivered  from  their  political  blunders.  It  will 
act  without  them ;  and  they  will  be  allowed  to 
form  a  part  of  it,  only  on  condition  of  working 
for  it  in  strict  obedience.  Is  this  a  solution  ? 
Because  your  child  does  not  know  how  to  read, 
does  it  follow  that  you  have  a  right  to  drive  him 
from  your  house,  and  deprive  him  of  his  family 
name  ? 

You  ought  not,  and  you  cannot  do  this.  You 
owe  liim  a  home,  an  occupation,  a  name.  You 
did  not  bring  him  into  the  world  to  abandon  liim 
to  fate.  You  owe  it  to  society,  too,  not  to  pro- 
duce a  vagrant.  These  duties,  to  the  fulfibnent 
of  which  }our  child  bus  a  claim,  3'ou  contracted 


100  I.IIPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

towards  the  people  the  day  that  you  delivered 
them  from  bondage.  They  were  vegetating  in 
nihility  :  you  gave  them  wings  and  life ;  and  now 
it  is  not  for  you  to  plunge  them  again  into  night. 
You  believed  that  you  ought  to  emancipate  them 
completely  before  furnishing  them  with  educa- 
tion ;  and,  if  yoa  consider  it  well,  this  imprudence 
was  necessary,  but  fatal.  It  is  too  late  to  re^Dent. 
We  cannot  take  back  what  we  have  given  away. 
The  highest  justice,  divine  justice,  is  opposed  to 
such  a  course. 

I  said  that  absolute  freedom  of  the  ballot  has 
been  inevitable  ;  and  this  fact  confirms  the  impos- 
sibility of  State  action  in  regard  to  distinction  of 
ability.  The  State  can  never  base  the  establish- 
ment of  inequalities  upon  any  thing  but  ciphers : 
it  cannot  be  a  judge  of  the  political  merit  of 
the  individual.  If  the  general  will  force  it  to 
an  aristocratic  constitution,  the  influence  of  the 
individual  can  be  increased  only  in  an  aristocratic 
sense.  The  figure  of  the  tax  will  decide  the 
value  of  the  man.  What  coarser,  more  unjust, 
and  monstrous,  what  more  at  variance  with  the 
feeling  which  leads  us  to  protest  against  the  influ- 
ence of  number  ?  The  Revolution  of  February 
was  instigated   to   get  rid  of    money   influence. 


THE  RIGHT  OF  ALL.  101 

which  was,  in  a  different  way,  iniquitous,  inju- 
rious, and  senseless.  When  this  revolution  was 
over,  the  question  arose  as  to  wherein  would 
henceforth  lie  the  preponderance  of  power.  The 
adjunction  of  capacity  was  eagerly  demanded. 
The  question  was  to  give  it  a  practical  definition. 
They  found,  then,  that  a  political  definition  was 
impossible,  —  that  the  State  had  neither  the  right 
nor  the  power  to  make  a  choice,  nor  to  favor 
classes,  bodies,  or  professions.  There  is  but  one 
course  possible,  broad,  and  equitable,  —  the  right 
of  all ;  and  this  was  adopted,  with  all  its  incon- 
veniences, dangers,  and  threatenings. 

The  situation  is  not  changed,  nor  can  it  change, 
because  there  are  no  legitimate  means  of  avoiding 
the  consequences  of  absolute  truth.  Every  thing 
relating  to  politics  changes  or  passes  away.  This 
proclamation  of  universal  suffrage  was  a  political 
error ;  and  that  is  precisely  what  gives  this  law 
indelibility.  The  republican  government  either 
saw  or  did  not  see  that  it  was  about  to  commit 
suicide.  It  acted  under  the  irreducible  pressure 
of  a  truth  superior  to  itself,  and  signed  —  its  own 
death-warrant;  wliich  Avas  a  great  acliievement. 
Let  us  all  indorse  this  noble  error!  If  we  are 
true  republicans,  sincerely  believing  in  progress, 


102  IMPJiESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

in  the  necessary  equality  of  rights,  in  the  future 
of  humanity,  let  us  not  allow  this  foundation  to 
be  removed  witliout  overthrowing  the  whole  edi- 
fice. Let  us  shun  that  political  notion  which 
incites  men  of  no  principle  to  curse  universal 
suffrage  when  it  threatens  their  own  interests, 
only  to  admire  it  when  it  proves  satisfactory.  Let 
us  believe  in  eternal  right,  immutable  truth.  Let 
us  feel  that  a  republic  is  the  only  form  of  govern- 
ment suited  to  a  nation  possessing  self-respect, 
and  let  us  try  to  become  such  a  nation.  We  have 
pledged  ourselves  by  centuries  of  contest,  by  the 
intellectual  efforts  of  our  learned  men  and  philoso- 
phers, by  the  persecution  of  our  martyrs,  by  our 
wars  sometimes  triumphant,  sometimes  disastrous, 
against  monarchical  coalitions.  Our  glories  and 
our  misfortunes  are  our  nobility ;  and  nobility 
imposes  the  obligation  of  nobleness  of  feeling  and 
conduct.  Would  we  have  so  fought  and  suffered, 
merely  to  fall  back  into  an  empire  or  monarchy  ? 
Shall  we  once  more  intrust  our  destiny,  and  what 
is  yet  more  important,  our  honor,  to  the  keeping 
of  a  single  man  ?  Shall  we  allow  Europe,  which 
looks  on  without  understanding  us,  to  say  that  we 
are  not  capable  of  governing  ourselves  wiselj^  that 
all  our  aspirations  and  protestations  were  mere 


WISDOM,    COURAGi:,   PATIENCE.  103 

boasts,  that  all  our  great  ideas  were  but  tlie  flight 
of  a  disordered  imagination,  that  our  ideal  did 
not  take  the  real  into  consideration,  and  that  our 
character  gre"w  shamefully  weak  when  difficulties 
arose  ?  When  the  hour  has  come  for  reaping  the 
fruit  of  so  many  sacrifices,  shall  we  resign  our  posi- 
tion as  men  and  Frenchmen  ? 

You  cry,  "  No,  no  !  That  is  not  what  we  desire. 
We  have  cause  to  fear  the  loss  of  those  sacred 
rights,  honor  and  liberty,  through  the  blindness 
of  the  multitude,  who  use  the  ballot  to  restore  the 
men  and  the  things  of  the  past." 

Very  well :  undeceive  yourself.  Republicanism 
is  making  rapid  progress  in  France.  Let  us  have 
the  wisdom  to  wait,  the  courage  to  trust,  and  the 
patience  to  submit  to  any  necessary  deviations, 
and  not  stumble  at  each  step  upon  a  line  that  we 
have  traced  out  for  ourselves.  We  are,  perhaps, 
in  the  most  uncomfortable  and  perilous  situation 
that  was  ever  known  ;  and  yet,  if  we  would  only 
avail  ourselves  of  it,  it  is  a  very  favorable  one  for 
social  regeneration.  We  arc  governed  by  a  sove- 
reign assembly,  which  is  the  normal  condition  of 
a  republic.  Within  tliis  assembly,  freely  chosen, — 
this  is  its  sole  merit,  —  exists  every  variety  of  opin- 
ion ;  and  yet  no  one  party  is  able  to  display  its  own 


104  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

colors.  The  large  number  of  claimants,  or  those 
who  assume  this  attitude,  are  fortunately  a  cause 
of  antagonism  among  themselves.  None  of  them 
r^resents  a  ruling  majority ;  and,  if  all  have  parti- 
sans in  the  different  provinces,  none  of  them  can 
have  the  twenty-two  departments  of  M.  Thiers. 
There  is  a  certain  fascination  in  this  chief  of  the 
executive  power,  not  on  account  of  his  intelligence 
or  his  talent.  The  masses  do  not  appreciate  such 
things ;  they  know  nothing  about  them :  what 
has  made  such  an  impression  on  their  minds  is 
that  force  of  character  which  led  him  to  accept 
the  republican  form  of  government  as  necessary 
and  respectable,  although  at  variance  with  his 
personal  feelings.  This  is  the  first  time  that  a 
man  in  power  has  been  known  to  renounce  his 
own  opinions  and  sympathies,  not  to  please  a 
party,  but  for  the  deliverance  of  a  nation. 

Here  is  something  quite  new  for  France ;  and 
this  abnormal  result  of  extreme  peril  presents  a 
noble  precept  for  patriotism,  and  a  good  example 
to  follow.  He  has  already  brought  many  minds 
to  a  knowledge  of  our  present  situation,  which  is 
equivalent  to  rousing  them  to  a  sense  of  their 
duty. 

Immediately  after  the  distresses  of  war  and  the 


THE  FRUIT   OF  EXPERIENCE.  105 

severities  of  peace,  we  were  made  to  witness  a 
senseless  and  odious  attempt  of  unqualified  tyr- 
anny ;  but  it  did  not  extend  beyond  the  walls  of 
Paris.  The  working-class  did  not  resj^ond  to  this 
mad  appeal.  They  understood  very  well  that  the 
triumph  of  this  party  meant  a  Prussian  master 
for  France ;  and  here,  again,  peril  protected  us 
against  peril. 

We  are  still  suffering  from  the  effect  of  this 
threat,  and  from  the  insult  of  foreign  occupation. 
This  6vil  tends  to  make  us  wise,  and  teaches  us 
not  to  seek  revolutions,  never  to  permit  them 
again,  but  to  consider  those  bad  citizens  who 
instigate  them  as  bad  Frenchmen.  From  our  dis- 
aster, humiliation,  and  sorrow,  may  arise  one  of 
those  great  lessons  in  which  history  abounds,  but 
which  the  people  never  understand  until  long  after 
they  have  been  taught  them  by  experience.  Let 
us  comprehend  this  one  immediately,  and  become 
more  sensil;le.  Let  us  treat  experience  like  a  fruit 
whicli  is  spoiled  by  being  gathered  too  late.  Let 
us  eat  immediately ;  and  may  it  do  us  good,  not  in 
a  hundred  years,  but  lo-duy !  i\L'iy  we  silence  our 
passions,  our  aiiihilioiis,  our  repugnant  feelings! 
Let  us  abandon  no  jjiiueiple,  but  yield  to  passing 
events  witliout  auger  and  without  discouragement. 


106  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

May  the  ignorant  be  pardoned  their  errors !  No 
one  has  the  right  to  punish  ignorance  ;  but  it  ought 
to  be  enlightened.  If  we  do  not  make  haste,  its 
destruction  will  involve  our  own,  and  on  owr  heads, 
more  than  on  its,  will  rest  the  blame. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SPIRITUAL    BELIEF. 

NOHANT,  Oct.  28,  1871. 

I  HAVE  just  lighted  a  fire  in  the  little  cop- 
per-lined fireplace  that  shines  like  a  mirror. 
The  flame  reflected  from  above  and  from  the 
sides  fills  the  chamber  with  its  brightness.  The 
curtain  is  drawn  aside.  It  is  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  The  full  moon  is  shining  in  the  pure 
heavens,  where  the  stars  are  almost  eclipsed  by 
its  brilliancy.  It  sheds  a  blue  tint  over  the 
room  from  the  reflection  of  the  blue  furniture 
and  drapery,  while  the  white  flames  of  the  blaz- 
ing pine  irradiate  the  hearth.  Every  thing  in 
the  little  room  seems  to  be  dancing,  —  the  por- 
traits of  the  children,  the  little  figures  on  the 
drapery,  the  arabesques  on  the  carpet.  How 
gay,  sparkling,  and  lively  is  the  first  fire  of 
autumn !  but  how  solemn  and  austere  is  the  first 
frosty  night !  There  is  a  lovely  ])Ouquet  gath- 
ered  this  morning  from  an  abundant  supply  in 

107 


108  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  flower-border;  healthy-looking  roses  of  un- 
usual size ;  the  last  roses,  the  most  beautiful  of 
the  year.  They  will  indeed  be  the  last.  The 
beds  of  mignonette  have  given  me  their  farewell 
perfume.  The  periwinkles,  the  marigolds,  the 
snapdragons,  have  their  last  representatives  in 
this  vase.  An  ominous  vapor  is  spreading  over 
the  glass ;  and  here,  in  a  little  corner,  a  diamond 
network  is  forming.  Alas !  this  is  no  harmless 
hoar-frost:  it  is  the  real,  unrelenting  kind,  that 
in  one  night  passes  over  the  earth  like  a  fire, 
blackening  the  leaves,  softening  the  stems,  de- 
stroying color,  and  strewing  the  ground  with 
withered  branches  and  mournful  debris.  This 
is  the  first  touch  of  winter,  the  fatal  kiss  which 
kills  the  sanguine  beauty  of  belated  vegetation. 
While,  though  prepared  for  a  struggle  with  the 
first  cold,  I  am  availing  myself  of  the  physical 
comfort  which  fire  procures  for  the  human  race, 
all  the  smiling  family  of  flowers  are  expiring, 
and  the  earth  is  putting  on  its  mourning  garb. 

Who  would  believe  it  ?  To  see  the  moon  so 
beautiful,  the  sky  so  blue,  the  tall,  motionless 
pines  marking  their  shadows  so  distinctly  upon 
the  shining  gravel,  one  might  fancy  himself  in- 
vited   to    a   feast   of    silence,   to  the  deep   and 


THE  SCYTHE   OF  DEATH.  109 

si)eechless  joy  of  contemplation  from  the  ark  of 
security.  No !  this  is  bitter  treason.  Death  is 
pursuing  his  noiseless  and  invisible  way  through 
the  groves  sown  with  diamonds ;  and,  as  he 
passes  back  and  forth,  he  mows  down  every  thing 
within  his  reach.  Here  he  has  overlooked  a  few 
pink  anemones;  there  some  fresh  daisies  are 
hastening  to  display  their  beauty,  be  it  only  for 
a  day.  Alas  !  they  will  not  be  permitted  this 
day  of  triumph.  The  cruel  scythe  that  overlooks 
nothing  has  discovered  them.  Every  thing  is 
dead. 

Last  year  at  this  time  I  was  not  thinking  of 
flowers.  My  sympathy  was  not  bestowed  upon 
roses,  but  upon  the  millions  of  men  lying  strewed 
upon  the  ground.  The  war  is  finished ;  but  we 
hardly  sleep  with  ]joth  eyes  closed,  although  the 
evil  is  withdrawn,  and  the  worst  of  the  misery  is 
over.  We  allow  ourselves  time  to  get  Avarmed, 
to  gaze  on  the  moon,  to  think  of  the  children  wlio 
are  sleeping,  and  will  not  be  forced  by  invasion  to 
spend  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the  fields.  The 
present  moment  is  our  own.  Our  house  is  still 
standing.  Have  we  a  right  to  complain  of  any 
thing,  when  so  many  roofs  lie  shattered  on  the 
ground,  so  many  lives  have  been  destroyed,  which 
can  never  bloom  again  ? 


110  niPRESSTONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Since  the  first  cold  weather  and  the  first  fire 
justify  me  in  spending  a  night  of  idleness,  I  shall 
avail  myself  of  it  to  renew  the  acquaintance  of  a 
person  forgotten  of  late,  who  is  no  other  than 
myself.  This  person,  who  lives  far  from  noise  and 
activity,  is  often  absorbed  in  her  own  affairs  ;  and 
her  recreations  belong  to  a  dear  family,  in  whose 
midst  her  existence  is  complete  without  the  need 
of  a  consciousness  of  life.  Perchance  she  collects 
her  thoughts,  and  asks  herself  this  question,  which 
she  has  often  before  evaded :  Of  what  use  are  you 
in  the  world  ? 

Of  what  use,  indeed  !  "Who  knows  ?  Perhaps 
we  ought,  from  time  to  time,  to  undergo  self- 
examination,  lest  we  forget  something  that  needs 
attention.  We  should  not  rely  too  much  on  the 
apparent  health  of  the  mind. 

Let  me  see  if  this  room  and  this  fire  will  help 
me  to  locate  in  the  past  the  person  whom  I  am 
seeking  at  present.  This  room  that  person  occu- 
pied in  her  youth,  when  she  was  eager  for  reading, 
and  possessed  full  confidence  in  herself.  She  often 
rose  at  ten  o'clock,  and  read  till  three.  When  she 
had  finished  reading  on  winter  nights,  she  would 
warm  herself  a  little,  which  was  not  always  easy, 
for  the  fireplace  used  to  smoke    at  the  slightest 


CONTRADICTORY  BELIEFS.  HI 

change  in  the  weather.  'V\niile  warming  herself 
she  would  reflect  on  what  she  had  been  reading, 
and,  with  the  blindness  of  inexperience,  grope  her 
way  to  criticism.  The  contradictory  beliefs  enter- 
tained by  great  minds  puzzled  her  ;  and  she  sought 
to  harmonize  these  lights  of  different  colors,  which 
shone  around  her  as  shone  then  and  shines  still 
the  flame  upon  this  hearth,  and  the  reflection  of 
the  moon  into  this  room. 

Brought  up  in  a  convent,  and  elated  with 
poetical  devotion,  she  calmly  read  the  philoso- 
phers, believing,  at  first,  that  she  could  easily 
refute  their  arguments  by  her  conscience  ;  but  she 
learned  to  love  these  philosophers,  and  to  feel 
God  greater  than  he  had  ever  yet  appeared.  The 
little  CathoHc  garlands  of  the  Restoration  froze 
during  these  winter  nights;  and  a  mysterious 
plant  grew  upon  an  ideal  altar  in  a  world  beyond 
this,  which  it  fdled  with  a  multitude  of  flowers 
and  innumerable  shoots.  It  was  a  virgin  forest, 
with  an  endless  number  of  convolvuli  uniting  to 
form  an  infinity  of  intertwinings  in  an  infinity  of 
vitality.  This  was  heaven ;  and  the  mind  of  the 
person  who  was  thus  musing  wandered  into  this 
infinity,  borne  thither  by  that  vegetation  which 
was  composed,  flowers  and  fruit,  of  all  the  souls 


112  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

in  the  universe,  regenerated,  made  fruitful,  im- 
mortalized, by  the  Spirit  of  God,  wliich  was  tlie 
sap. 

This  was  very  vague,  but  very  grand;  and, 
every  time  that  the  vision  returned,  it  seemed  to 
have  grown,  as  if  the  sap  had  increased  through- 
out the  whole  and  throughout  its  parts. 

But  for  a  long  time  this  mental  dazzling  lacked 
something :  it  was  a  personal  feeling.  Catholi- 
cism teaches  us  to  love  God  as  a  person :  philoso- 
phy extends  love  by  making  reason  intervene. 
The  dreamy  soul  longed  for  love  ;  and  Omnipo- 
tence, the  object  of  its  admiration,  did  not  suffice 
for  its  affections.  Infinite  love  was  wanting  in 
this  exuberant  creation,  where  the  force  of  regen- 
eration was  inexhaustible  ;  and  the  world,  which 
serves  us  as  a  medium,  manifests  only  the  strug- 
gle of  existences  encroaching  upon  one  another. 
In  this  virgin  forest,  the  living  grew  fatally  fat  on 
death ;  and  the  Author  of  death  and  life  seemed 
indifferent  to  these  alternatives  of  slumber  and 
activity.  Whence  it  appears,  that  no  existence  is 
precious,  and  that  the  wise  man  will  pass  un- 
moved through  this  universal  scramble  for  salva- 
tion. Accordingly  universal  life  loses  all  joy,  all 
consciousness  of  strength.  Where  love  does  not 
dwell,  is  a  void. 


THE  NEED   THROUGH  ALL   AGES.  113 

Then  the  thoughtful  mind  of  which  I  am 
endeavoring  to  give  a  slight  description,  and 
which  at  that  time  was  seeking  to  regain  its 
religion  of  the  past,  tried  to  rise  through  prayer. 
Rejecting  the  impeding  form  of  Catholicism,  it 
unconsciously  became  Protestant.  It  went  still 
farther,  and  improvised  its  mode  of  communion 
with  the  Divinity.  It  formed  for  itself  a  religion 
suited  to  its  growth,  commensurate  with  its 
understanding.  It  was  probably  not  a  grand 
conception :  its  whole  merit  lay  in  sincerity  and 
independence. 

What  floated  over  this  billow,  what  has  floated 
through  all  ages  of  life,  and  swum  without  weari- 
ness, was  the  need  of  a  belief  in  divine  love, 
which  blossoms  to  perfection  in  the  great  uni- 
verse, in  spite  of  appearances  proclaiming  the 
absence  of  all  superior  goodness,  of  all  pity,  and 
consequently  all  justice  ;  for,  having  endowed  us 
with  human  nature,  to  scornfully  abandon  this 
weakness  would  be  unfathcrl}'^,  iniquitous.  I 
should  prefer  to  feel  tliat  God  did  not  exist,  than 
to  beUevc  him  indifferent. 

When  this  perplexed  individual  allowed  her- 
self to  hG  persuaded  that  such  might  be  the  case, 
she  sometimes  Ijecame  atheistic  for  four  and 
twenty  hours. 


114  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

I£  she  had  discovered  the  answer  to  her  problem, 
she  would  have  been  before  her  time  and  her  age. 
She  met  with  nothing  but  fugitive  accords  that, 
crossing  her  ideal,  left,  as  it  were,  a  trace  of  sweet 
harmony.  At  those  rare  moments  when,  in  the 
calmness  of  her  conscience  and  the  allayment  of 
her  misgivings,  she  semed  to  feel  the  wings  of  the 
maternal  Divinity  fluttering  above  her  head,  she 
experienced  the  only  happiness  which  can  be  felt 
in  sohtude,  —  sensibility;  I  might  almost  say  a 
sensation  of  the  Divine  presence. 

External  life  banished  these  thoughts  for  a  long 
time,  or  relieved  their  oppressive  weight ;  and  the 
sights  and  mental  reflections  which  this  life 
unrolled  were  merged  into  a  common  whole  where 
philosophic  individuality  seems  to  have  become 
entirely  effaced  during  long  periods.  Our  present 
object  is  to  discover  and  to  renew  the  chain  which 
connects  the  old  age  of  this  individual  with  her 
youth.  Nothing  could  be  easier.  This  chain  has 
been  loose  for  a  long  time,  it  has  become  entangled 
with  many  passing  ideas  ;  but  it  has  never  broken. 
It  is  there.  I  feel  it.  The  dialogue  with  the 
unknown  is  about  to  be  continued ;  but  I  cannot 
say  where  it  left  off,  nor  what  was  the  last  word 
exchanged.     It  is  like  a  book  without  beginning 


FAITH.  115 

or  end,  and  without  the  division  of  chapters; 
where  each  page  reminds  me  that  it  has  been 
read  before. 

It  is  freezing.  This  temperature  is  fatal  to 
veo-et-ation.  It  is  unfavorable  to  the  circulation 
of  either  sap  or  blood.  The  earth  is  sad:  man  is 
suffering.  The  certainty  that  in  other  climes  this 
night  is  day,  and  this  frost  a  mild  solar  warmth, 
does  not  prevent  the  plant  from  dying,  nor  the 
man  without  shelter  from  taking  cold.  General 
compensations  from  which  we  do  not  derive  imme- 
diate advantage  do  not  take  the  place  of  sensi- 
bility ;  and  satisfied  reason  does  not  console  those 
who  are  not  content  with  reason  alone.  It  is  the 
same  with  faith.  The  evil  which  educes  good 
does  not  justify  the  universe  in  allowing  itself  to 
be  governed  by  brute  force  ;  and,  if  God  has  beeu 
able  to  prevent  evil  and  suffering,  it  has  not  been 
his  will  so  to  do.  The  God  of  Job  was  only  an 
eloquent  rhetorician,  and  Job  was  a  coward  to  be 
so  submissive. 

We  must  either  not  believe  in  God  at  all,  or  we 
must  relincjuish  all  the  notions  that  we  have  thus 
far  iml)il)cd.  We  must  give  up  estimating  liis 
attributes  l)y  our  own,  and  acknowledge  that  our 
goodness  is  not  his  goodness,  our  justice  not  his 


116  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

justice,  and  that  lie  has  intrusted  to  us  the  care 
of  watching  over  ourselves,  without  ever  alleviat- 
ing, in  defiance  of  Nature's  laws,  the  difficulties 
and  perils  of  our  existence.  This  is  left  to  work 
out  its  own  destiny,  without  any  visible  com- 
passion or  assistance.  It  is  for  us  to  draw  from 
Nature  her  secrets ;  it  is  for  human  science  and 
industry  to  discover  what  is  needed  from  the 
inexhaustible  reservoir  whence  flow  the  conditions 
of  universal  life. 

The  first  man  who  conceived  the  idea  of  con- 
quering fire,  and  making  it  subservient  to  the 
wants  of  his  fellow-creatures,  by  constructing  a 
fireplace  where  the  smoke  might  escape,  was 
more  humane  towards  man  than  noisy  Jupiter, 
crashing  the  cedars  with  his  thunderbolt,  and 
living  in  the  region  of  the  sun  in  a  state  of  nudity, 
without  ever  considering  whether  the  inhabitants 
of  the  earth  knew  how  to  provide  themselves 
with  clothing.  Yet  man  thanks  Jupiter  for  creat- 
ing fire,  but  never  thinks  of  being  grateful  for 
the  knowledge  of  its  use.  He  blesses  Flora  for 
bestowing  flax  and  hemp,  and  the  earth  for  sup- 
I)orting  those  animals  which  furnish  wool  and  fur. 
For  every  thing  that  he  utilizes,  he  thanks  the 
benevolent  beings  who  have  done  nothing  more 


MATERIAL  RELIGION.  117 

than  allow  him  to  appear  on  earth  at  the  proper 
time,  —  that  is,  at  the  time  decreed  by  the  great 
law,  —  in  order  that  he  may  find  there  the  condi- 
tions of  his  existence.  These  gods  of  antiquity, 
this  Jehovah  himself,  who  includes  them  all,  and 
gives  us  a  loftier  idea  of  the  power  of  nature  cen- 
tred in  him,  —  these  are  the  forces  and  properties 
of  matter.  We  need  a  material  rehgion,  to  secure 
their  favor,  to  prevent  them  from  becoming  angry, 
and  applying  the  scourges  which  they  keep  in 
reserve  for  the  chastisement  of  the  impious. 

This  childish  and  barbarous  notion  has  entered 
the  human  brain,  and  become  incrusted  there  by 
its  descent  from  father  to  son :  it  is  ever  the  same, 
with  heaven  and  hell  as  a  cover  for  the  illogical 
manifestations  of  the  apparent  intentions  of  the 
Divinity  towards  us  mortals. 

Thus  ever  a  God  formed  in  our  own  image, 
foolish  or  sinful,  vain  or  childish,  irritable  or  ten- 
der, after  our  manner  ;  fanciful  if  his  caprice  acts 
in  this  world ;  sophistical  and  casuistic,  if  he 
waits  till  after  death  to  indemnify  us  for  the 
wrong  that  he  has  done  us  during  life. 

Communion  with  such  a  God  is  impossible  to 
me,  T  confess.  lie  is  effaced  from  my  memory, 
and  I  could  not  find  him  in  any  part  of  my  room ; 


118  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES.  ' 

neither  is  he  in  the  garden,  nor  in  the  fields,  nor 
upon  the  waters,  nor  in  the  azure  dome  of  stars, 
nor  in  the  churches  where  men  kneel.  It  is  a 
word  extinct,  a  dead  letter,  a  finished  thought. 
Such  a  belief,  such  a  God,  cannot  exist  in  my 
mind. 

And  yet  every  thuig  is  divine.  This  beautiful 
sky,  this  fire  which  burns  so  brightly,  that  human 
industry  which  grants  me  human  life  (that  is,  the 
power  to  indulge  in  peaceful  revery  without  being 
frozen  Hke  a  plant),  that  thought  which  is  working 
itself  out  in  my  brain,  this  heart  which  loves,  that 
repose  of  will  leading  me  to  more  extended  love, 
all  this,  spiritual  and  material,  is  animated  by  some- 
thing higher  than  either,  —  the  unknown  origin 
of  every  thing  tangible,  the  hidden  force  which  is 
the  cause  of  all  that  has  been  and  ever  will  be. 

If  all  is  divine,  even  matter ;  if  every  thing  is 
superhuman,  even  man,  —  then  God  is  in  all  things. 
I  see  and  I  touch  him  ;  I  feel  him,  because  I  love 
him,  because  I  have  always  loved  and  felt  him, 
because  he  dwells  within  me  to  a  degree  propor- 
tionate to  my  insignificance.  For  all  that,  I  am 
not  God ;  but  I  came  from  him,  and  to  him  I  must 
return.  Still  that  is  only  a  form  of  speech ;  for 
he  has  neither  left  me,  nor  taken  me  back,  and,  in 


RELIGIOUS   IDOLATRY.  119 

my  present  life,  I  am  separated  from  him  only  by 
the  limit  to  which  I  am  held  by  the  infancy  of  the 
human  race.  Centuries  and  centuries  will  pass 
away,  and  new  lights  will  come  to  us,  as  they 
have  several  times  already.  This  detachment 
from  the  notion  of  rehgious  idolatry  is  a  Hght 
obtained.  It  is  not  a  loss  of  religious  feehng,  as 
persistent  idolaters  affirm,  but  quite  the  reverse  ; 
it  is  a  restitution  of  faith  to  the  true  Divinity  ;  it 
is  a  step  towards  him,  an  abjuration  of  the  dogmas 
which  were  an  outrage. 

Formerly  he  was  represented  as  having  a 
special  home  in  a  celestial  region.  Sculptors 
seated  him  upon  a  throne  :  painters  suiTounded 
him  with  clouds  or  rays.  His  face  was  the  nearest 
ij\}Q  of  ideal  beauty  that  the  masters  of  art  could 
conceive,  —  a  blissful  simplicity,  forcing  human 
conception  to  rise  above  itself.  Modern  thought 
does  not  need  these  temples  and  statues.  It 
refuses  to  confine  to  form  what  is  incommensur- 
able and  imponderable.  Images  are  now  only 
symbols.  We  see  God  wherever  he  manifests 
himself  to  our  feeble  eyesight;  and  imagination, 
which  has  a  right  to  the  counsels  of  sentiment 
and  reason,  chooses  to  see  him  especially  in  beau- 
tifid  objects,  and  in  gi-eat  productions  of  nature 


120  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

and  of  mind.  But  what  we  thus  see  and  touch  is 
only  the  radiation  of  our  own  mind.  None  of 
our  senses  is  adapted  to  the  vision  of  God ;  and 
we  can  never  render  him  an  external  worship 
corresponding  to  our  ideal.  Enthusiasm  is  a 
disease,  in  which  the  apparitions  are  in  accord- 
ance with  the  brain  by  which  they  are  produced. 

Why  should  He  who  fills  all  space  be  assigned 
a  special  place  of  abode  ?  Why  should  the  Spirit 
which  animates  every  thing  have  a  fixed  point  of 
emanation  ?  To  be  near  us,  he  does  not  need  to 
descend  from  empyreal  spheres.  He  is  with  me 
continually ;  but  I  should  err  in  wishing  him  to 
be  with  me  alone,  and  occupied  exclusively  with 
my  concerns.  I  ought  to  be  contented  with  the 
intellectual  sense  which  has  been  given  me,  that  I 
may  feel  and  possess  as  much  of  Mm  as  is  appre- 
ciable to  this  corrupt  sense.  I  ought  also  to  be 
contented  with  the  words  which  my  insufficient 
vocabulary  furnishes  me  for  designating  this 
Being ;  for  he  has  no  more  a  true  name,  in  the 
language  of  men,  than  he  has  a  decided  form  for 
the  human  eye.  As  a  child,  I  tried  to  picture 
him  to  myself :  as  an  adult,  I  dare  not  make  the 
attempt.  I  have  grown  to  understand  that  the 
Infinite  is  a  conception  not  beneath,  but  beyond, 
reason. 


THE  INDISCOVERABLE.  121 

Formerly  we  wished  that  he  would  reveal 
himself  by  miracles,  or  sink  into  the  region  of 
shadows.  What  was  iudiscoverable  caused  us 
fear.  To-day  the  indiscoverable  looms  above  us 
without  overwhelming  us ;  and  the  ardent  im- 
pulse which  in  our  lucid  moments  urges  us 
towards  him  is  divine,  only  because  it  meets  with 
no  earthly  object  which  can  give  it  satisfaction. 
It  is  the  most  subtile  and  exquisite  part  of  our 
being  which  is  moved  at  the  idea  of  God.  The 
too  frequent  use  of  this  faculty  would  cause 
insanity.  Daily  practice  in  established  formulas 
stultifies  us,  and  renders  us  incapable  of  discern- 
ing the  least  particle  of  the  divine  ideal. 

At  this  moment,  while  I  am  reasoning  with 
myself  on  the  subject,  and  recalling  the  straitened 
and  popular  forms  under  which  this  ideal  was 
revealed  to  my  childhood,  I  cannot  feel  its  truth. 
I  might  say,  without  sin,  that  I  do  not  believe  in 
it ;  for  no  one  is  bound  to  believe  m  what  does 
not  forcibly  strike  his  consciousness.  I  have  had, 
and  still  do  have,  vibrations  with  the  Infinite ; 
but  this  is  not,  and  ought  not  to  be,  the  normal 
condition  of  tlie  liuman  individual.  He  ought  to 
respond  to  the  vibration  of  tangible  nature,  and 
not  isolate  himself  from    humanity,  lest  the  con- 


122  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

necting  links  break  asunder,  and  he  be  left  soli- 
tary and  useless. 

The  time  will  come  when  we  shall  not  speak  of 
God  needlessly,  but  as  seldom  as  possible.  We 
shall  not  teach  dogmatically  of  his  attributes,  or 
dispute  concerning  his  nature.  We  shall  not 
impose  on  any  one  the  obligation  of  prayer,  but 
allow  each  to  worship  in  the  sanctuary  of  his  own 
conscience.  And  this  will  happen  when  we  are 
truly  religious.  Then  we  shall  all  be  so ;  and  the 
attempt  to  establish  a  prescribed  religion  will  be 
regarded  as  blasphemy.  The  love  which  we  bear 
him  will  be  of  a  bashful  nature :  prayer  will 
become  mysterious,  and  the  fear  of  being  un- 
worthy will  silence  the  pen  of  the  theologian  and 
the  preacher.  This  great  idea,  which  cannot  be 
approached  with  a  troubled  conscience,  will  not 
sanction  ridiculous  processions  upon  the  high- 
ways, or  ceremonies  borrowed  from  paganism. 
The  remembrance  of  these  profanations  will  have 
but  an  archaeological  interest,  like  the  symbolic 
obscenities  which  decorate  the  cathedrals  of  the 
middle  age.  The  place  of  worship  of  the  puri- 
fied soul  will  no  longer  be  a  tabernacle  liable  to 
be  entered  by  thieves,  the  key  of  which  is  kej)t 
in  the  priest's  pocket.     There  will  be   then   no 


THE  INDEPENDENT  THINKER.  123 

need  of  tolerance  for  tardy  faiths.  They  will  fall 
with  the  threats  and  thunderbolts  of  the  Church 
demolished  or  deserted.  When  the  ancient  gods 
are  mentioned,  they  will  suggest  only  allegories. 
Their  history  will  be  that  of  the  people  who  have 
invented  them.  The  era  of  faith  will  commence 
when  all  our  fancies  are  enshrouded. 

To-day  the  independent  thinker  who  is  tolerant 
towards  all  faiths,  out  of  respect  to  human  liberty, 
yet  demands  the  same  freedom  of  thought  in  the 
sphere  of  his  own  meditations,  experiences  a  sen- 
sation of  unrestraint  and  peaceful  submission  to 
his  own  faith.  This  is  his  inward  treasure,  his 
modest  reliance,  his  humble  and  inviolable  peace 
of  mind :  it  is  his  secret  joy,  the  recompense 
which  he  makes  himself  for  not  having  gone 
astray,  or  suffered  himself  to  be  influenced  by 
foolish  or  evil  passions :  it  is  his  refuge  in  the 
hour  of  great  distress,  when  he  can  say  to  him- 
self, "  I  have  not  deserved  this ;  but  that  atom  of 
divine  sense  which  has  been  bestowed  upon  me 
cannot  be  taken  from  me.  I  am  yet  wortliy  to 
hold  it  in  the  depths  of  my  soul,  and  to  offer  up 
to  it,  as  a  burnt  sacrifice,  all  the  light  and  love 
that  is  within  me  ;  for  the  worst  chastisement  of 
our  errors  is  a  loss  of  tlie  notion  of  the  Divinity ; 


124  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

and  this  man  inflicts  upon  himself,  as  he  does  all 
evils  from  which  he  suffers,  because  his  will  is  not 
sufficient  to  drive  them  away,  partly  for  want  of 
science,  partly  for  want  of  devotion,  and  partly 
for  want  of  sincerity." 

The  fire  is  still  burning  ;  the  moon  is  sink- 
ing behind  the  tall  trees,  and  the  owl  is  utter- 
ing his  doleful  note  like  a  farewell  sigh.  There 
are,  as  yet,  no  signs  of  daylight ;  and  I  wan- 
der back,  in  thought,  to  that  time  when  those 
sleepless  nights  often  brought,  to  the  half-devel- 
oped individual  that  I  was  then,  heart-rending 
or  joyous  solutions,  according  to  the  degree  of 
knowledge  which  I  had  acquired,  or  according 
to  the  course,  more  or  less  direct,  which  I  had 
pursued. 

What  I  sought  then  was  the  connection  be- 
tween faith  and  reason ;  and  I  am  seeking  for 
it  still.  At  that  time  I  was  in  quest  of  the 
impossible,  because  my  faith  rested  upon  a  reli- 
gion whose  formula  was  chimerical :  now  I  have 
a  perception  of  the  possible,  I  may  say  the  evi- 
dence of  my  synthesis,  because  I  am  free  from 
all  prescribed  formula.  I  know  that  no  human 
being  has  the  right  to  call  himself  God,  pope, 
prophet,  or  king  of  souls  under  any  title  what- 


THE  IDEA  OF  GOD.  125 

soever.  The  idea  of  God  can  come  to  us  only 
from  God  himself ;  and  we  cannot  feel  his  pres- 
ence merely  by  desiring  to  feel  it.  Our  mind 
must  undergo  a  preparation  or  be  absolutely  pure. 
We  must  rise  above  ourselves,  above  the  influ- 
ence of  passing  objects,  above  ideas  accepted 
by  the  multitude  without  inquiry,  above  those 
immediate  political  interests  which  affect  the 
rehgion  of  a  country.  In  short,  we  must  feel 
deeply  and  earnestly  the  necessity  of  believing 
in  an  ideal  sun,  unlike  the  stars  of  heaven,  shed- 
ding its  rays  upon  all  things,  abstract  and  real. 
We  must  feel  that  excess  of  enthusiasm  and 
adoration  which  tangible  beings  do  not  demand, 
and  which  would  be  superfluous  in  a  mind  un- 
conscious of  God.  Our  very  aspirations  for  the 
infinite  prove  tlie  existence  of  the  spirit  which 
has  implanted  within  us  this  ray  of  infinity.  No 
being  has  a  faculty  without  an  end,  or  aspirations 
without  a  means. 

Now  til  at  my  vigil  is  over,  and  I  have  recov- 
ered my  lost  wic,  I  feel  God  :  I  love  and  I  be- 
lieve. This  me,  l;etween  which  and  myself  tlie 
round  of  daily  duties  has  threatened  a  separation, 
has  regained  its  true  value.  Wandering  in  soli- 
tude, it  would  have  engendered  nothing  but  fan- 


126  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

cies.  Face  to  face  with  its  Supreme  Origin,  it 
is  not  alone,  and  its  monologue  is  an  inward 
hymn,  whose  distant  and  mysterious  echo  proves 
that  it  is  not  lost  in  space. 

Thou  whom  the  egotistic  prayer  of  the  idolater 
profanes  and  misinterprets,  who  hearest  the  heart's 
cry,  to  which  men  are  deaf,  and  dost  not  answer, 
like  them,  with  the  impious  no  of  cold  reason ; 
Thou  who  art  the  inexhaustible  source  which 
alone  can  slake  that  unquenchable  thirst  for  the 
good  and  beautiful ;  to  whom  belong  all  the 
better  thoughts  and  acts  of  life,  trials  endured, 
duties  accomplished,  all  that  purifies  existence 
and  keeps  love  ever  fresh,  —  I  will  not  pray  to 
thee.  I  have  nothing  to  ask  which  the  law  of 
life  has  not  furnished  me ;  and,  if  I  have  not 
availed  myself  of  it,  it  is  my  own  fault  or  that  of 
humanity,  of  which  I  am  a  responsible  and 
dependent  member.  My  communication  with 
thee  shall  not  be  the  mumbling  of  the  mendi- 
cant who  asks  to  be  supported  without  work.  It 
is  for  me  to  discover  the  course  marked  out  for 
me,  and  to  accomplish  the  task  assigned.  A 
miiracle  will  not  intervene  to  reheve  my  exertions : 
so  let  there  be  no  supplications,  no  paternosters 
to  the  Spirit  who  has  granted,  for  our  use,  a  spark 


COMMUNION  INEXPRESSIBLE.  127 

of  his  own  flame.  Communion  with  thee  is  not 
expressed  in  words  that  could  be  pronounced 
or  written.  Language  was  discovered  for  the 
exchanoe  of  thous^ht  between  man  and  man. 
With  thee  there  is  no  language :  all  communion 
is  within  the  soul,  where  there  is  no  reasoning,  no 
deductions,  and  no  formal  thoughts ;  where  all  is 
fire  and  enthusiasm,  wisdom  and  strength.  Upon 
these  sacred  heights  a  union,  impossible  upon 
earth,  is  consummated  between  delicious  tran- 
quillity and  unutterable  rapture. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

1861. — LETTER  TO  KOLLINAT.  —  DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

I  AM  to  start  next  week.  Your  friend  of  old 
times,  who  has  travelled  before,  is  going  to 
travel  again.  He  was  old  when  he  wrote  you 
such  sad  letters:  now  he  is  more  than  a  hundred  ; 
but  years  amount  to  nothing  in  a  man's  age.  Some 
people  live  much  in  a  short  time,  and  their  years 
count  double.  Take  him  for  such  as  he  is,  you 
who  have  so  much  patience.  He  does  not  walk  so 
fast  as  formerly,  but  he  has  been  walking  a  longer 
time.  His  bones  can  stand  the  sun  better,  because 
they  are  chilled  through ;  and  now  after  having 
shown  signs,  last  autumn,  of  his  departure  on 
that  longest  of  journeys,  from  which  no  traveller 
returns,  he  is  starting  to  tread  once  more  the  soil 
of  this  planet,  poor  little  world  full  of  tears  and 
smiles,  obstinate  delusions,  and  hopes  more  obsti- 
nate still.  And  so,  my  friend,  your  traveller,  weary 
of  his  long  rest  which  has  not  rested  him,  has  de- 
cided that  the  best  kind  of  rest  is  motion,  since  he 

128 


THE  LOVE   OF  LIFE.  129 

is  a  son  of  the  earth ;  for  the  earth  never  stops, 
and  yet  is  never  weary. 

To  love  this  earth  is  to  love  life,  you  will  say. 
But  stop !  When  we  believe  in  eternal  and 
universal  life,  as  both  of  us  have  always  believed, 
even  in  our  darkest  days,  we  do  not  feel  that  we 
quit  life  by  quitting  this  little  world,  and  we 
flatter  om-selves  that  we  have  discovered  a  better 
by  discovering  a  shorter  way.  We  may,  then, 
become  weary  of  the  life  of  this  world,  and  yet 
not  believe  in  non-existence.  It  seems  to  me, 
though,  that  minds  uneasy  at  remaining  here  have 
not  the  consciousness  of  a  soul,  that  imperishable 
and  indefatigable  traveller  which  has  many  things 
to  see  elsewhere,  and,  on  the  whole,  has  more 
duties  to  perform  than  rewards  to  receive  in  this 
poor  province  of  the  great  Urania. 

But  /,  dear  friend,  love  all  that  belongs  to  this 
universal  domain.  I  love  it  now,  not  only  be- 
cause certain  rays  of  light  have  emerged  from 
the  fog  of  my  troubled  mind,  but  also,  perhaps 
especially,  because  I  have  had  an  opportunity  to 
be  dearly  beloved.  God  gives  us  these  opportu- 
nities as  a  remedy  for  all  our  troubles ;  and 
should  we  not  be  ungrateful  for  this  if  we 
wished    to    leave    before    our    appointed    time  ? 


130  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Surely  it  would  not  be  right.  Those  only  who 
have  none  left  to  receive  or  reciprocate  their 
love  feel  a  delight  in  death. 

A  few  years  ago,  when  I  lost  my  grand- 
daughter Jeanne,  I  made  no  great  display  of 
my  grief;  but  I  felt  a  longing  to  die  which 
alarmed  me  as  something  wrong.  It  was  a  dis- 
ease of  sorrow.  I  felt  as  though  this  child  were 
calling  to  me  fi'om  another  world,  where,  in  her 
weakness  and  soHtude,  she  needed  me,  while  the 
other  objects  of  my  affection  no  longer  required 
the  attachment  of  a  broken  heart  and  a  dejected 
spirit.  One  night  I  dreamed  that  she  said  to 
me,  "Rest  easy:  it  is  well  with  me."  I  awoke 
resigned.  I  had  nothing  more  to  overcome  but 
the  sorrow  of  my  own  loss,  and  that  I  could  do. 
Did  the  child  speak  to  me,  or  was  it  my  con- 
science? It  matters  not:  I  was  ill.  I  tried  to 
recover,  and  returned  to  Italy. 

A  year  later,  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau,  I 
had  a  sort  of  dream  while  awake.  It  was  on  a 
mild,  damp  day  in  the  early  part  of  March. 
There  was  not  a  single  leaf  on  the  trees ;  and  I 
never  saw  the  old  oaks  of  the  Bas-Br^au  look 
so  magnificent,  with  their  long  branches  washed 
by  the  rains,  and  covered  with  a  velvet  coating  of 


^  A    WAKING  DREAM.  131 

moss.  The  rocks,  too,  looked  clean  in  their  win- 
try coldness  ;  and  the  gravel,  with  its  soft,  golden 
hue,  showed  distinctly  the  footprints  of  the  roe 
and  the  fox.  I  sat  down  alone  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, between  two  rocks,  in  one  of  the  wildest 
nooks.  Just  where  the  sand  had  hollowed  out 
an  artificial  path,  free  from  imprint  of  any  kind, 
I  saw  the  earth  turn  around,  move  away,  and  dis- 
appear. In  a  slight  depression  in  this  narrow  fis- 
sure, my  imagination  pictured  the  footprint  of  a 
child  ;  a  single  footprint,  as  if  the  sweet  phantom 
had  tried  to  be  near  mc,  and  yet  could  not  make 
up  its  mind  to  rest  both  feet  upon  this  earth  of 
sorrows.  I  could  not  restrain  my  tears,  a  stream 
not  as  yet  dried  up,  but  replenished  by  rest. 
The  child  burst  out  into  one  of  its  merriest  peals 
of  laughter,  like  the  music  of  a  bird,  which  had 
so  many  times  fiUed  me  with  joy.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  laugh  of  a  robin  redbreast ;  but  what 
matters  it  ?  Life  was  singing  while  my  useless 
tears  were  flowing.  My  child  was  alive  and 
happy.  I  must  accustom  myself  to  do  witliout 
her,  and  not  Ijc  jealous  of  God,  who  had  taken 
her  from  me  to  provide  her  with  a  better  home. 

Abniglity  God,  thou  makest  us  optimists  ;  and 
yet    what  deeper  anguish   than   to  feel  that  we 


132  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

have  survived  those  who,  in  the  common  course 
of  events,  ought  to  have  strewed  our  grave  with 
flowers ! 

But  all  the  pitiless  notions  of  this  world  change 
their  aspect,  even  entirely  lose  their  meaning, 
before  the  lisjht  of  an  ideal  notion.  When  I  live 
on  the  vulgar  appreciation  of  events,  the  most 
unsatisfactory  possible,  I  become  discouraged,  and 
my  heart  sinks;  but  let  the  light  shine,  and  I 
could  subdue  monsters.  There  is  no  more  death, 
but  life  regenerated  and  purified ;  it  is  the  feast 
prepared  for  those  whom  my  jealous  tears  per- 
haps offend  and  distress. 

Yet  it  is  not  a  consoled  traveller  who  is  writing 
this  letter.  He  has  not  acquired  with  age  a 
taste  for  those  things  which  satisfy  ambition,  and 
render  the  imagination  sober  and  benumbed. 
Some  people  who  look  on  the  dark  side  say  that 
he  has  changed  his  madness,  and  that,  weary  of 
walking  at  random  upon  the  earth,  he  has  started 
for  the  moon.  Never  mind !  Wherever  his  mind 
is,  his  heart  is  with  you.  This  unsatisfied  travel- 
ler is  not  consoled  for  his  loss ;  but,  better  still,  he 
has  forgotten  it.  He  used  to  think  too  much  of 
himself;  he  did  nothing  but  jilume  his  feathers, 
scold   and   complain.     Now  his   thoughts  run  as 


THE   THOU  GUT  OF  DYING.  133 

little  as  possible  in  that  direction:  lie  travels 
either  among  the  stars  when  his  limbs  are  con- 
signed to  repose  by  sedentary  occupations,  or 
upon  the  mountain  paths  which  he  has  always 
loved,  where  he  would  be  glad,  when  his  time 
comes,  to  die  in  the  open  air,  with  the  sun  above 
his  head,  and  a  tuft  of  grass  for  his  pillow. 

The  thought  of  dj-ing  in  bed  is  very  disagree- 
able. You  know  that  three  months  ago  I  Avent 
to  sleep  in  perfect  health  and  in  good  spirits,  and 
for  six  or  eight  days  was  unconscious.  When 
I  returned  to  myself,  I  seemed  to  be  just  leaving 
the  ruins  of  a  castle  where  I  had  been  feeling 
very  cold.  Those  about  me  might  have  been 
singing  Pergolesi's  ballad,  for  the  words  still  rang 

in  my  ears, — 

"  II  sonno  I'assassina." 

But  this  murderous  sleep  I  did  not  feel.  I  had 
not  suffered,  and  my  sensation  on  returning  to 
consciousness  was  agreealjle.  At  first  I  did  not 
know  that  I  was  in  my  OAvn  room  ;  but  as  I  hud 
been  longing,  in  my  dreams,  to  see  the  dear  ones 
who  were  watching  with  me,  their  presence  did 
not  astonish  mo,  and  I  entreated  them  to  take  me 
]iom(;.  A  moment  after,  I  recognized  an  old 
portrait  tliat  was  gazing  upon  me  witli  a  martial 


134  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

jet  benevolent  mien,  and  I  thanked  the  good  souls 
who  had  brought  me  from  that  evil  abode  where  I 
imaoined  I  had  been  attacked  with  fever. 

That  was  all.  Is  death  like  this, — so  simple 
an  affair,  a  dream  that  passes  away,  a  state  in 
which  we  do  not  witness  the  tears  of  those  who 
hold  us  dear,  nor  realize  that  we  are  about  to 
leave  them,  but  enter  thoughtlessly  the  unknown 
world,  without  being  able  to  say  to  God,  "  Here  I 
am,"  or  to  the  beloved  ones  left  behind,  "Fare- 
well "  ?  This  Avould  be  very  comfortable,  but  too 
much  so ;  for,  whether  there  be  suffering  or  joy  at 
the  last  moment,  we  shoidd  wish  at  least  to  be 
conscious  of  its  approach.  Man  feels  the  need  of 
bidding  his  family  adieu,  and  putting  his  house  in 
order.  It  seems  as  though  his  farewell  duty  were 
to  say  to  them,  "  Rest  in  peace  :  I  shall  not  for- 
get you.  I  am  obliged  to  go ;  but  I  feel  sure  that, 
absent  as  well  as  present,  I  shall  love  you  al- 
ways." 

So,  having  relinquished  life  without  regret  and 
without  an  effort,  —  for  to  be  unconscious  of  hving 
is  equivalent  to  being  dead,  —  I  returned  to  this 
existence  without  any  feeling  of  amazement,  or 
ecstasy  of  delight,  almost  like  the  child  who 
enters   the   world   without   knowing   whence   he 


THE   VALUE  OF  LIFE.  135 

comes  or  whither  he  is  going.  "When  I  beheld 
the  dear  ones  around  my  bed,  those  who  had 
watched  and  wept  over  me,  I  felt  ashamed  of 
having  been  so  indifferent  to  their  trouble,  and  so 
heedless  of  their  ofrief.  Yet  it  was  not  my  fault. 
I  had  been  neither  courageous,  philosophical,  curi- 
ous, nor  ambitious.  I  had  slept  too  soundly,  and 
my  heart  had  slept  with  the  rest  of  my  body ; 
but  it  seemed  none  the  less  cruel  and  ungrateful 
that  I  had  not  been  able  to  rouse  myself.  Tears, 
so  many  tears  for  me  !  and  had  I  deserved  them  ? 
Truly,  I  had  not  supposed  myself  so  much  be- 
loved ;  or,  rather,  I  had  become  accustomed  to  it  as 
something  quite  natural.  What  joy  was  in  those 
affectionate  hearts,  when  I  was  restored  to  life  ! 
What  attention,  what  anxiety,  what  indulgence, 
were  lavished  on  me  during  the  time  of  my  con- 
valescence !  I  felt  then,  and  have  felt  ever  since, 
that  when  we  leave  tender  and  loving  friends  we 
do  not  belong  to  ourselves,  that  it  is  a  crime  to  be 
careless  of  our  welfare,  and  that  we  ought  to 
value  both  eternal  life  and  tliis  short  life,  in  which 
one  day  of  reciprocal  affection  is  worth  all  the 
joys  of  eternity. 

So  you  will  imagine  that  I  was  not  sorrowful  at 
that  time.     I  felt  some  little  dread  of  infirm  old 


136  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

age,  althoiigli  I  was  not  troubled  then  with  any 
infirmity ;  but  I  armed  myself  with  courage  for 
the  time,  which  was  perhaps  fast  approaching, 
when  my  legs,  those  valuable  and  docile  servants 
of  the  will,  would  turn  rebellious,  and  I  should 
be  able  to  behold  the  summits  of  the  mountains 
only  from  below.  Now  that  their  strength  has 
been  renewed  by  rest,  I  am  once  more  enabled  to 
climb  ;  and,  with  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth,  I 
take  no  heed  for  the  morrow. 

He  is  right,  perhaps,  who  feels  that  every  thing 
is  for  the  best :  nor  is  this  belief  a  recantation  if 
he  has  formerly  believed  to  the  contrary ;  for  even 
then  he  might  have  been  right.  Every  thing  of 
which  man  is  convinced  by  sincere  reasoning  is 
true,  from  a  certain  point  of  view  ;  because  this 
world  presents  perpetual  contrast,  and  what  at 
one  moment  is  in  the  deepest  shadow  at  another  is 
resplendent  with  light.  Argument  is  no  doubt  a 
fine  thing ;  it  exercises  a  faculty  which  enlarges 
the  discernment  of  the  mind ;  but  it  has  no  effect 
upon  grief,  for  this  alone  is  positive  and  beyond 
discussion.  One  argument  may  be  answered  by 
another ;  but  what  answer  is  there  for  tears  and 
lamentations  ? 

Wisdom,  then,  is  no  cure  for  suffering,  but  it 


THE   CURE  FOR   GRIEF.  137 

gives  US  the  fortitude  to  endure  it;  and,  as  all 
the  forces  of  the  mind  are  dependent  on  one 
another,  the  more  fortitude  we  possess  the  more 
we  suffer.  The  cure  for  grief  is  kindness  and 
affection.  An  expressive  emotion  demands  a 
responsive  emotion.  Wounds  of  the  sensibility 
require  the  halm  of  sensibility.  Ah,  how  different 
is  the  treatment  used  by  the  heart,  from  that  of 
the  mind  I  Our  age  of  lassitude  and  abuse  either 
does  not  realize  this,  or  does  not  care  to  realize  it. 
We  shall  eventually  adopt  this  treatment ;  and 
deceitful  reality,  which,  in  fact,  is  nothing  more 
than  the  verification  of  events  of  the  moment, 
will  have  to  flee  with  these  events,  and  yield  its 
place  to  the  true  instincts,  the  everlasting  wants, 
of  nature. 

Sincerity,  thou  art  the  essence  of  God  himself; 
and,  even  if  men  could  banish  thee  forever  from 
their  presence,  thou  wouldst  still  exist  in  the 
merest  work  of  creation,  in  the  pure  melody  of  a 
bird,  in  the  unquestionable  beauty  of  a  plant,  in 
the  genthi  breath  of  a  zephyr.  That  is  why  I 
delight  in  tlio  open  air,  and  in  wild  scenery.  I 
am  not  actuated  Ijy  hatred  of  my  fellow-beings. 
They  have  done  me  no  harm  :  some  would  liave 
liked  to  injure  me  ;  but  others  have  done  mo  a 


138  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

great  deal  of  good.  As  to  the  multitude  who  are 
not  acquainted  with  me,  and  of  whom  I  can 
judge  only  by  the  aggregate  of  their  deeds  made 
manifest  by  their  lives,  I  feel  bound  to  assert, 
notwithstanding  the  great  amount  of  indulgence 
due  them,  that  they  are  going  astray,  and  have 
decidedly  taken  the  wrong  paths.  They  have 
reached  a  crisis  of  fearful  materialism,  which  has 
not  even  the  merit  of  liberty  and  passion,  because 
it  is  concealed  under  a  covenant  of  revolting 
hypocrisy. 

In  the  course  of  events,  man  is  influenced  by 
constant  re-action.  He  eventually  becomes  tired 
of  his  own  vices,  thus  rendering  reproach  hardly 
necessary.  Let  us  look  for  better  times.  Hu- 
manity, poor,  dear  patient,  thou  wilt  suffer  much 
from  thy  faults,  but  thou  wilt  recover.  I  will 
tarry  in  some  wilderness  until  the  pestilence  pass 
away  ;  for  it  provokes  thee  to  hear  the  truth,  and 
thou  clingest  to  thy  sin  with  as  much  rage  as  if 
it  were  a  blessing  of  which  others  were  trying  to 
deprive  thee.  Flow  on,  then,  thou  river  rough- 
ened by  the  tempest,  since  this  torrent  and  these 
falls  are  needed  for  thy  purification ;  and  let  us 
dreamers  look  up  and  see  if  the  snows  have 
melted,  and  if  the  Easter  daisies  will  soon  be  in 


MATERIAL   INTERESTS.  139 

blossom.  The  world  is  seized  with  a  mania  for 
money.  Every  one  is  eager  to  acquire  it,  and 
would  give  his  heart's  blood  for  its  possession. 
The  kings  of  finances  hug  one  another  in  despair, 
break  out  into  accusations,  and  are  ready  to 
strangle  each  other  over  their  strong-boxes. 
Israel  is  rent  like  a  mantle.  The  Christian  pro- 
fession do  no  better.  The  so-called  defenders  of 
the  faith  of  Christ  are  willing  that  the  people 
should  cause  their  own  destruction  for  the  sake 
of  a  question  of  material  interest  in  Ijehalf  of  a 
tyranny  which  is,  in  fact,  a  negation  of  the  gospel. 
Poets  and  artists  even  are  becoming  as  much 
interested  in  the  positive  as  financiers  and  the 
clergy.  They  seek  it  not  only  from  personal 
motives,  but  introduce  it  into  art,  and  attempt  to 
portray  it,  incapable  as  the}'  are  of  understanding 
the  ideal  or  making  it  comprehensible  to  others.^ 

No  hatred,  no  disdain,  but  farewell  for  the 
present,  dear  ruined  society.  There  will  be  flat- 
terers enough  to  tell  thee  that  thou  art  perfect, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  thee  to  censure  or  correct, 
and  that  those  individuals  whose  minds  are 
tainted  with  pure  and  poetical  ideas  are  pedants 

1  Ten  yoiir.-i  a^'n,  events  sii;;;^este<l  these  reflexions.  I  do  not 
Bee  that  materialism  has  bettered  tlie  condition  of  things. 


140  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

who  aspire  to  the  title  of  reformers,  or  fools  of  the 
most  dangerous  kind,  however  little  they  may  be 
disgraced  with  ingenuousness.  Let  us  see  if 
Nature,  too,  has  acquired  a  taste  for  the  artificial, 
and  a  passion  for  what  is  becoming ;  if  holly-trees 
have  adorned  themselves  with  ears  of  corn,  and  if 
ivies  are  trying  to  bear  roses.     I  think  not. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  Arrsm  m   sleep. 

to  koiilinat.  —  journai.. 

Tamaris,  1861. 
"TVTOW  that  I  am  feeling  better,  and  my 
-i- 1  strength  is  returning,  the  country  looks 
charming,  and  I  am  recovering  that  happy  faculty 
of  finding  it  more  beautiful  the  longer  I  look  at 
it.  My  son  has  left  for  Africa,  and  ISIancean  is 
entirely  taken  up  with  his  engraving ;.  so,  for  the 
last  few  days,  I  have  lived  almost  alone,  doing 
my  writing  at  home,  and  pursuing  my  botanical 
studies  during  my  walks  of  six  or  eight  hours. 
One  might  almost  live  by  his  organs  of  sight  in 
this  region  of  delightful  scenery,  where  the  eye 
feeds  on  splendor,  —  dazzling  lights,  tempered  by 
soft  shades.  All  this  beauty  diffuses  itself  through 
the  mind,  curing  it  of  that  sort  of  Ijlind  sadness 
which  results  from  physical  weakness.  As  soon 
as  it  yields  to  rc-action,  the  weakness  of  the  body 
rapidly  diminishes. 

Why  do  I  feci  that  desire,  every  evening,  to 

141 


142  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

exaggerate  in  memory  the  beauty  which  I  have 
been  admiring  during  the  day?  Perhaps  it  is 
the  necessity  for  re-action  against  that  precise- 
ness  to  which  I  am  confined  by  my  duties  as 
author.  I  take  mental  notes,  scrupulously  exact ; 
and  I  know  that,  in  this  regard,  my  memory  will 
not  prove  treacherous.  This  is  quickly  done, 
thanks  to  my  habit  of  observation  ;  and  then  I 
begin  to  take  my  enjoyment.  I  feast  like  a 
glutton,  and  when  I  am  satiated  I  feel  happy. 
After  coming  to  myself,  I  dine  like  a  bird,  and 
drink  like  a  grasshopper ;  for  my  stomach  is  not 
right  yet,  and  I  am  intoxicated.  Every  thing 
large  that  I  have  seen  appears  to  me  immense; 
what  was  austere  becomes  formidable,  and  what 
lovely,  paradisiacal :  yet  Nature's  beauties  exceed 
our  most  extravagant  fancies.  I  reverence  her, 
and  despise  myself  continually.  It  is  a  kind  of 
intoxication,  a  state  of  hallucination.  My  will  is 
not  accountable,  and  my  reason  is  powerless. 

Do  we,  then,  possess  an  instinct  for  remodel- 
Hng  reality?  If  so,  it  is  the  grain  of  folly  to 
which  we  all  have  to  submit  when  we  become  the 
prey  of  any  passion ;  and  I  am,  just  at  present, 
the  excited  prey  of  the  passion  of  contemplation. 

In  sleep  this  instinct  is  carried  to  a  still  greater 


DREAMLAND.  143 

extent.  I  behold  the  real  aberrations  of  nature, 
and  I  follow  them  by  an  analogous  mental  aberra- 
tion. For  example :  last  night,  I  dreamed  of  the 
strangest  adventures,  "which  seemed  to  me  per- 
fectly natural.  At  first  I  was  in  India  with  you, 
and  Maurice  was  running  before  us,  chasing 
butterflies  with  Jean  our  servant.  We  entered 
a  magnificent  forest  of  cypress-trees,  whose 
branches  touched  our  heads.  Were  they  cypress- 
trees  ?  You  thought  not.  Suddenly  I  noticed, 
at  the  extremity  of  certain  branches,  singular 
ramifications,  terminating  in  a  fruit  the  size  of  a 
nut.  This  fruit  confusedly  suggested  to  my  mind 
a  human  form  ;  and,  as  I  gazed  upon  it,  I  observed 
that  the  likeness  was  more  apparent  as  the  fruit 
approached  maturity. 

"  You  have  seen  all  that  you  care  to  see ! "  you 
exclaimed.  "  Pretty  soon  you  will  believe  in 
vegetable  homunculL" 

"  Indeed,"  I  replied,  gathering  one  from  the 
branches,  "  I  not  only  believe,  but  feel  sure. 
Here  is  a  perfect  homunculus  !  " 

I  can  hear  now  your  exclamation  of  surprise  as 
you  picked  from  anotlier  branch  a  living  homun- 
culus. Mine  was  not  rii)o :  therefore  it  clung 
tightly  to  the  stem.    It  had  a  perfect  human  form. 


144  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

but  was  green,  still  in  a  vegetable  state,  and,  in 
plucking  it,  I  had  severed  the  tliread  of  its  future 
life ;  but  I  had  no  time  for  regret.  Innumerable 
quantities  were  swaying  in  the  branches  about  us, 
or  climbing  to  the  tops  of  the  ,trees.  You  held 
yours  as  if  afraid  either  of  stifling  it,  or  letting  it 
escape,  while  I  was  busy  searching  for  another 
subject  in  a  similar  state,  that  is,  just  entering 
upon  life,  and  so  recently  loosened  in  its  hold  upon 
the  vegetable  tissue  that  it  could  be  gathered  while 
in  a  state  of  torpor.  I  succeeded  in  procuring  a 
little  female  specimen ;  and  we  both  ran  to  call 
Maurice,  in  high  glee  at  having  made  so  fine  a 
discovery. 

" Pooh ! "  cried  he :  "I  have  my  pockets  full. 
They  are  nothing  rare  for  this  country ;  but  they 
are  good  for  nothing  :  you  cannot  raise  them.  As 
yours  are  still  ahve,  put  them  back  upon  their 
trees." 

I  do  not  remember  whether  we  took  his  advice. 
A  cloud  passed  over  the  forest,  and  I  seemed  to 
be  crossing  a  vast  steppe  with  Eugene  Delacroix. 
We  were  on  our  way  to  a  city,  of  which  the  slated 
spires  in  the  distance  loomed  up  against  the  white 
sky.  There  was  no  road.  The  season  was  unde- 
cided; winter  on  one  side,  spring  on  the  other. 


THE  MOVING  PRAIRIE.  145 

The  ground  was  slippery,  cracked,  and  abounding 
in  holes  filled  with  half-melted  snow.  Delacroix 
stopped,  and  said  to  me,  "  I  do  not  see  any  path. 
Nobody  can  ever  have  passed  this  way.  Let  us 
proceed  no  farther.  The  crust  of  the  earth  has 
not  as  yet  been  formed  here ;  therefore  let  us 
seek  a  soil  upon  which  we  can  walk."  Such  a 
geological  reason  having  appeared  to  me  unques- 
tionable, I  followed  him ;  and,  shortly  after,  he 
remarked,  "  Here  is  the  moving  prairie.  We  are 
aU  right." 

I  asked  for  no  explanation,  but  I  paused  in 
amazement  at  this  prairie.  It  was  an  immense, 
undulating  carpet  of  verdure,  Hke  the  Campagna 
of  Rome  on  the  side  of  the  Via  Aurelia,  but  not 
composed  of  grass  that  is  withered  in  summer  and 
rotten  in  winter.  The  earth  was  as  fine  as  though 
it  had  been  sifted,  and  the  microscopic  clover- 
grass  grew  as  thick  as  moss.  At  first  it  appeared 
to  me  of  a  uniform  dull  green  ;  but  very  soon  I 
oljserved  the  variety  of  shades  and  reflections  of 
the  aquamarine.  The  land  was  so  elevated  as  to 
give  us  an  extensive  horizon;  and  light  vapory 
clouds,  tinted  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  floated  about 
ill  the  sky. 

"Come,"    said    Delacroix:    "  <1«)    not   stop  any 


146  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

longer  to  look.  Let  us  hurry  on,  or  the  clouds 
will  get  ahead  of  us." 

Not  doubting,  of  course,  any  more  than  he,  that 
we  could  keep  up  with  the  clouds,  I  started ;  but 
I  was  unable  to  make  any  progress :  something 
held  me  back. 

"  Pray,  how  are  you  walking  ? "  he  asked. 
"  You  are  not  doing  it  the  right  way.  You  ought 
not  to  resist  the  motion  of  the  prairie.  Put  on 
your  sea-legs,  keep  your  equilibrium,  and  let  the 
prairie  carry  you  along." 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  managed  myself  as  I 
ought ;  but  I  felt  the  prairie  rising  in  solid  waves, 
and  bearing  me  rapidly  along,  like  an  object  that 
floats  over  a  swell,  without  taking  any  active  part 
in  its  own  progress. 

"  This  is  a  very  agreeable  manner  of  travel- 
ling," I  observed  to  my  companion.  "I  am  taking 
an  endless  journey,  without  suffering  the  least 
fatigue.  But  you  ought  to  inform  me  of  the 
cause  of  this  phenomenon.  Suppose  we  stop  a 
while,  that  we  may  not  quit  this  delightful  prairie 
too  soon." 

"  To  stop  here  would  be  impossible  ;  for  the 
prairie  keeps  on  rolling,  and  we  must  follow  its 
undulations.     Nothing  is  simpler  than  this  phe- 


THE   CLOUD   IN   THE  HEAVENS.  147 

nomenon.  It  results  from  the  nature  of  the  grass, 
and  the  power  exerted  by  the  ground  in  forcing 
its  growth.  When  it  is  fully  developed,  the  plain 
will  remain  quiet  and  immovable  till  the  next 
spring." 

Here  my  dream  became  confused  ;  and  I  seemed 
to  be  in  my  garden  at  Nohant,  with  Maurice  and 
Mancean,  looking  at  a  great  white  cloud  in  the 
heavens,  which  were  with  this  exceptioii  very 
blue.  Masons  were  at  work  on  a  staircase  out 
of  doors,  adjoining  the  house  ;  of  which  staircase 
there  did  not  appear  to  be  the  shghtest  need. 
Mancean  had  ordered  it,  and  was  attempting  to 
explain  to  us  its  use,  which  related  to  the  white 
cloud  that  was  rising  in  the  heavens. 

"You  know,"  said  he,  "that  important  events 
are  about  to  take  place  in  the  upper  regions.  It 
was  indispensable  to  have  an  observatory  here, 
and  I  liad  to  commence  by  building  a  staircase. 
But  stop ;  the  exhiljition  is  about  to  begin. 
Walk  up." 

I  ascended  the  staircase  alone,  and  reached 
an  elevation  which  overlooked  the  tops  of  the 
tall  linden-trees.  The  thick  cloud,  still  cream- 
colored,  spread  over  the  whole  firmament.  Then 
I  heard  the  following  dialogue  from  below :  — 


148  niPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Mancean.  —  Ah !  wliat  a  pity !  It  is  all  a  fail- 
ure.    It  is  taken  aivay ! 

3Iaurice.  —  That  is  true:  it  is  taken  away. 
What  will  you  do?  Let  us  go  up  and  take  a 
look. 

And  Maurice  came  up. 

"  What  is  taken  away  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Zounds,  the  thunder  !  We  relied  upon  that 
to  burst  the  cloud  of  silver  which  is  descending 
upon  our  heads  ;  but  the  silver  of  the  cloud  is 
notliing  more  or  less  than  a  hyperborean  world, 
which  is  just  ready  to  fall,  and  the  thunder  has 
been  taken  away  by  the  ice.  There  will  be  no 
bursting  of  any  thing.     The  thing  is  a  failure." 

"  Not  exactly  a  failure ;  for  this  is  a  magnifi- 
cent sight,  the  equal  of  which  I  have  never 
before  witnessed." 

The  white  cloud,  now  become  sohd  and  com- 
pact, descended  in  slow  majesty.  Soon  after,  I 
perceived  that  an  enormous  glacier  was  approach- 
ing, head  first,  and  forming  a  vault  above  our 
heads.  Through  an  oblique  opening  in  this  the 
raj^s  of  the  sun  were  admitted,  and  cast  the  most 
splendid  reflections  upon  this  strange  world  which 
was  about  to  settle  quietly  but  irrevocably  upon 
our  own.     Deep  valleys,  resembling  tunnels  about 


THE  END   OF  THE    WORLD.  149 

to  cover  us,  shone  like  the  sapphire ;  and  icicles 
as  brilliant  as  diamonds  seemed  ready  to  nail 
us  down  with  their  gigantic  points.  All  this  was 
frightful,  yet  sublime.  At  the  same  time  the 
surface  of  our  world  began  to  congeal  at  the 
approach  of  this  formidable  object,  and,  in  its 
turn,  to  bristle  with  icicles  projecting  from  the 
bluish-colored  snow  with  which  the  soil  was 
covered.  There  were  now  but  a  few  steps  of 
the  staircase  by  which  Mancean  had  joined  us 
that  were  not  fiUed,  either  by  the  marvellous  ice 
which  was  descending,  or  the  not  less  beautiful 
ice  that  was  rising. 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  Mancean  in  distraction. 
"  You  see  that  the  thunder  is  destroyed,  and  that 
our  world  is  coming  to  an  end." 

"  Your  explanation  is  horrible,"  replied  Mau- 
rice. "  The  thunder  has  nothing  to  do  with  this. 
Our  world  has  volcanoes  enough  for  its  defence." 

"  You  and  your  mother  are  very  incredulous. 
We  are  all  lost !  " 

"  Well,"  returned  Maurice,  *'  let  us  endeavor  to 
see  as  much  as  we  can  before  all  is  over." 

Indeed,  it  was  all  over.  The  icy  vault,  con- 
tracting more  and  more,  seemed  at  last  to  rest 
its  circumference  ux^on  the  horizon.     We  were  in 


150  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

a  glaucous  light,  similar  to  that  of  an  aquarium. 
The  vault  sank  down  upon  us  without  a  sound, 
without  a  shock,  without  any  perceptible  warning 
to  humanity,  if  the  latter  had  not  already  disap- 
peared. Maurice  and  I  seemed  not  to  be  victims 
in  this  dream.  Nevertheless  I  awoke  suddenly, 
as  if,  at  the  final  moment,  I  had  made  a  great 
effort  of  my  will,  to  avoid  seeing  the  catastrophe  : 
not  that  the  sight  of  this  peaceful  cataclysm 
would  have  caused  me  actual  terror ;  for  it  was 
like  the  solemn  accomplishment  of  some  great 
undertaking,  and  I  reproached  myself  for  refus- 
ing to  behold  the  conclusion.  I  tried  to  fall 
asleep  again,  so  as  to  return  to  the  staircase  ;  but 
I  found  there  only  the  masons,  who  were  engaged 
in  rebuilding  the  demolished  house,  and  in  repair- 
ing, as  they  jovially  remarked,  the  consequences 
of  the  termination  of  the  world. 

What  is  the  cause  of  these  fancies  in  sleep  ?  I 
shall  be  answered,  One's  physical  condition.  I 
grant  it ;  but  that  does  not  account  for  the  differ- 
ent forms  which  they  assume.  This  relates  to  an 
organic  mechanism,  with  the  machinery  of  which 
we  are  unacquainted,  and  which  is  an  enigma  to 
us  all.  As  our  eyes  retain,  for  some  time,  the 
impression  of  the  solar  spectrum,  so  the  mind  is 


OUR  BRAIN.  151 

filled  with  objects  furnished  by  the  eyes ;  and 
fancy  sketches  them  in  a  changed  form,  upon 
some  camera-obscura,  the  sanctuary  of  dreams. 

Our  brain,  then,  is  not  an  apparatus  for  photo- 
graphic operations,  by  which  exact  likenesses  are 
produced.  Tliat  is  more  like  a  theatre  where  the 
performances  of  hfe  are  presented  under  the  form 
of  fictions ;  but  it  is  far  richer  and  more  original 
than  any  theatrical  fiction.  It  is  the  unforeseen 
in  all  its  power,  the  impossible  accepted  in  ad- 
vance, the  unrestrained  feast  of  the  imagination. 
There  the  serious  and  the  burlesque  dance 
together,  and  fear  and  joy  succeed  each  other. 
There  grief  is  often  poignant ;  our  tears  flow,  and 
moisten  the  pillow ;  but  it  is  laid  aside  most 
frequently,  to  give  place  to  compensations  impos- 
sible to  be  realized.  The  friend  who  has  just  left 
us  returns  suddenly  after  a  long  journey  which 
has  lasted  Ijut  an  instant.  On  certain  occasions, 
even,  he  comes  forth  from  the  tomb  where  we 
have  just  laid  him,  to  converse  with  us.  Wc  die 
very  easily  in  our  dreams  ;  and  we  feel  ourselves 
dead  and  alive  at  the  same  time  without  suipvise 
or  distress.  Thus,  owing  to  the  fictions  which 
soothe  our  slumbers,  we  pass  a  considerable  i)or- 
tiou  of  our  existence  outside  of  the  domain  of 
reality. 


152  TMPEESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

We  may  dream  without  sleeping.  Contempla- 
tion nearly  always  leads  us  to  a  higher  state  of 
existence,  where  reason  lies  dormant,  and  where 
our  wanderings,  though  confined  within  stricter 
limits  than  those  of  the  dream,  are  none  the  less 
exempt  from  the  control  of  reason.  There  exists 
within  us  something  called  mind,  which  is  per- 
haps entirely  different  from  what  at  present  bears 
this  exceedingly  vague  and  ill-defined  name.  I 
have  thought  for  a  long  time  that  we  possess 
three  minds,  —  one  for  controlling  the  use  of  our 
organs,  another  for  adjusting  our  relations  with 
mankind,  and  a  third  for  communion  with  the 
divine  Spirit  that  animates  the  universe.  Sainte- 
Beuve  smiled  when  I  told  him  so.  "  Three 
minds  ?  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Would  that  we  could 
be  sure  of  having  one  !  "  I  dared  not  answer 
him  that  we  had,  perhaps,  more.  We  are  not 
such  simple  phenomena  as  some  have  tried  to 
believe,  in  order  that  they  might  class  us  as  good 
and  bad,  elect  and  damned.  On  the  contrary,  we 
are  very  complicated  structures  ;  and  the  lobes  of 
our  brain  have  multifarious  functions,  which 
absolutely  baffle  scientific  analysis.  The  scalpel 
of  the  metaphysician  is  no  safer  than  that  of  the 
anatomist.  Neither  can  touch  the  seat  of  life 
without  destroying  it. 


A    MOUNTAIN    WALK.  153 

Tamaris  still,  J%  20,  1861.  —  To-day  I  did 
what  is  better  for  my  delicate  health  than  taking 
notes.  I  walked  considerable,  and  I  took  a  nap 
upon  the  grass.  Notwithstanding  the  east  wind, 
which  is  pretty  strong,  I  started  out  with  my 
coachman,  the  faithful  Matron,  who  has  become 
my  careful  attendant  in  my  out-of-door  exercise. 
He  scolds  me  when  I  walk  too  much,  or  when  I 
forget  to  eat  my  luncheon  ;  but  we  have  a  com- 
panion whom  he  decidedly  prefers  to  me,  —  one 
of  his  horses,  his  favorite  one,  which  is  called 
Monsieur  Botte,  God  knows  why.  He  is  a  little 
animal,  full  of  spirit,  and  skilfully  carries  me 
through  difficult  ways.  To-day  Matron  har- 
nessed him,  and  undertook  to  have  me  taken  to 
the  top  of  Mount  Evenos  in  a  carriage ;  but,  when 
we  had  reached  the  end  of  the  road,  he  began  to 
sigh,  and  I  perceived  that  he  was  in  great  distress. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Is  M.  Botte 
sick?" 

"  He  is  thirsty,  poor  creature  !^^ 

"  Suppose  we  stop,  and  let  him  drink." 

"  Oh,  yes  !     I  will  run  for  some  water.     There 

are  some  woodmen  over  there,  who  must   have 

brought  their  jug  willi  lliem,  and  they  will  fill  my 

[)ail ;  for  sooner  than  mak(!  my   liorse  drink   the 


154  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

water  from  that  stream,  which  is  nothing  but 
black,  dirty  juice  coming  from  the  olive-presses,  I 
would  drink  it  myself." 

The  road  did  not  seem  to  m^  very  steep:  so  I 
told  Matron  that  he  might  lead  his  horse  wher- 
ever he  hked,  to  water  him,  and  that  I  would 
ascend  on  foot. 

"No,  no,"  replied  he:  "it  would  be  too  tire- 
some. I  said  that  I  would  get  you  up  in  the 
carriage,  and  so  I  will.  Look  after  M.  Botte  for 
a  moment,  until  I  return." 

"  Why  look  after  him  ?  He  is  steady  enough. 
I  prefer  to  stroll  about  in  this  little  grove." 

"  But  what  if  somebody  should  come  to  steal 
him  ?  We  are  in  the  gorges  of  Ollionles,  and  out 
of  the  beaten  track.  I  never  feel  exactly  safe  in 
a  place  like  this." 

"  If  any  one  should  come  to  steal  him,  Matron, 
do  you  think  me  capable  of  defending  him  ?  " 

"  Oh !  as  far  as  that  is  concerned  you  need 
have  no  fear.  There  have  been  no  brigands  in 
the  gorges  since  the  time  of  Gaspard  de  Besse, 
who  was  captured,  and  buried  in  you  know  what 
grotto  ;  at  least,  so  they  say  in  the  countr}^  about 
here.  But  there  are  stragglers  who,  seeing  a 
horse  alone,  would  mount  and  make  off  with  him ; 


A  NAP  ON  THE  GRASS.  155 

yet  they  wouldn't  dare  to  try  it  before  a  person's 
very  eyes.  So  don't  be  afraid,  but  take  courage 
for  just  a  moment." 

I  did  take  courage  ;  that  is,  I  waited  a  full  quar- 
ter of  an  hour.  It  was  quite  a  pretty  spot  at  the 
foot  of  the  only  wooded  mountain  of  this  barren 
chain.  There  was  a  fine  turf,  clean  gravel,  and 
interesting  little  flowers  scattered  here  and  there. 
I  was  not  fatigued,  but  an  unconquerable  desire  for 
sleep  came  over  me ;  and,  having  assured  myself 
that  M.  Botte  was  quietly  browsing,  I  fell  fast 
asleep.  I  beUevo  that  the  horse  was  still  brows- 
ing when  Matron  returned  with  the  empty  pail. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  find  a  drop  of  water,  and 
he  pretended  that  Botte  cast  reproachful  glances 
at  him. 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  do  the  same,"  said  I ;  "  for  I 
am  very  thirsty." 

"  Oh !  you  can  get  something  to  drink  half  way 
up  the  mountain ;  but,  I  warn  you,  it  is  quite  a 
distance,  and  the  i^oor  creature  can't  walk  fast. 
He  is  sufiering  in  good  earnest." 

Our  course  was  very  simple,  —  to  leave  the 
caniage  concealed  amid  the  bushes,  and  all  three 
mount  on  foot.  I  insisted  upon  adopting  this 
course.     The  ascent  did  not  appear  very  rugged, 


156  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

and  we  made  a  short  stay  at  the  spring.  This  is 
an  abundant  stream  of  icy-cold  Avater  issuing 
from  the  sides  of  a  heated  mountain.  Just  here 
there  is  a  deej^  depression  in  the  mountain.  The 
spring,  overflowing  the  great  stone  basin  which 
receives  it,  winds  around  the  declivity,  waters 
a  charming  park,  and  flows  across  the  sloping 
prairies  which  carry  off  the  water  in  an  oppo- 
site direction  to  the  gorges  of  OUionles.  I  have 
seldom  seen  a  villa  so  strangely  situated  as  that  to 
which  this  park  belonged  ;  for  Evenos  is  in  the 
form  of  a  sugar-loaf,  and  one  would  hardly  expect 
to  find  water  here,  consequently  shade  and  cool- 
ness. This  habitation,  far  from  being  affected  by 
the  storms  that  rage  about  it,  or  burned  by  the 
scorching  rays  of  a  hot  sun,  is,  as  it  were,  an 
oasis  protected  by  fine  trees  and  refreshed  by 
running  water.  A  profound  silence  reigned  here  ; 
and  through  the  openings  in  the  foliage  I  caught 
glimpses  of  the  dramatic  and  desolate  scenery  of 
the  gorges,  with  their  great  perpendicular  fissures, 
their  jagged  summits  perforated,  and  supported 
by  mighty  piers,  which,  if  not  closely  examined, 
would  appear  from  a  distance  like  giant  fortresses 
built  by  the  hand  of  man,  or  hewn  out  of  the 
rock. 


THE  RUINED   CASTLE.  157 

My  surprise  was  increased  when  I  left  this  park, 
to  continue  the  ascent.  This  volcanic  cone  is 
planted  in  the  midst  of  a  calcareous  chain.  I  had 
observed  from  below  that  the  summit  had  the 
appearance  of  a  crater :  as  I  walked  upon  the 
lava,  I  could  no  longer  feel  a  doubt.  The  ascent 
is  everywhere  practicable,  by  taking  a  zigzag 
course  ;  and  loaded  wagons  are  constantly  passing 
between  the  gorge  and  the  summit.  The  village, 
or  rather  the  town,  —  for  it  is  an  ancient  fortified 
town,  —  is  surmounted  by  an  old  ruined  castle, 
from  which  the  view  is  magnificent.  The  rampart 
is  full  of  white  immortelles.  The  carriages  that 
pass  along  the  Ollionles  road  are  barely  distin- 
guishable from  here  with  the  naked  eye,  and  yet 
it  is  directly  under  foot. 

The  descent  is  easy  and  rapid.  As  Matron 
was  harnessing  his  horse  in  the  little  grove,  he 
lamented  that  I  had  not  gone  up  in  the  carriage  ; 
but  M.  Botte  had  had  a  good  drink  at  the  spring, 
and  ])een  well  fed  at  the  tavern :  so  I  had  to  per- 
suade his  master,  for  his  consolation,  that  we  had 
pursued  the  necessary  course. 

On  returning  home,  and  thinking  the  matter 
over  this  evening,  I  am  convinced  that  the  coast 


158  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

of  Toulon  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  Provence. 
It  presents  an  inexhaustiljle  variety ;  and  but  for 
the  mistral,  which  is  exceedingly  harsh,  the  envi- 
rons of  Toulon  might  be  chosen  for  a  winter 
residence. 

But  I  must  confine  myself  to  the  most  promi- 
nent beauties,  and  not  waste  time  with  intermedi- 
ate details.  From  the  fortress  of  Evenos  I  could 
see  not  only  the  romantic  gorges  of  Ollionles,  but 
the  whole  extent  of  country  separating  them  from 
the  Mediterranean;  and  this  brilliant  panorama 
reminds  one  of  the  Promised  Land.  The  splen- 
dor vanishes  when  we  come  in  actual  contact  with 
the  unfruitful  soil,  sickly  orange-trees,  stunted 
cork-trees,  barren  tracts  either  dusty  or  swampy, 
the  infectious  faubourgs,  and  the  naked,  slimy 
shore.  It  is  all  disagreeable  when  close  at  hand, 
and,  were  it  not  for  botanical  specimens,  would 
give  one  the  blues  ;  but  in  the  great  panorama 
these  details  are  set  off  by  the  purple  of  evening, 
or  the  adjustment  of  proportions.  A  harmonious 
effect  is  produced,  which  seems  to  me  not  unlike 
that  produced  in  our  general  estimations  by  wis- 
dom. Life  may  be  likened  to  the  earth  upon 
which  we  tread.     What  is  constantly  within  our 


HARMONY  OF  EFFECT.  159 

reach  is  full  of  deceit ;  what  Reason  erects  at  a 
distance  receives  its  true  value  ;  and  in  the  union 
of  the  two  lies  power.  There  is  no  use  in  denying 
it :  every  thing  must  be  so  arranged  as  to  produce 
a  fine  effect  when  viewed  as  a  whole. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SOME  IDEAS  OF  A  SCHOOL-TEACHEE. 

NoHANT,  January,  1872. 
rr^HE  scliool-teacher  is  myself.  I  have,  perhaps, 
-L  a  chiim  to  this  title,  as  I  have  almost  always 
had  one  scholar  or  another  to  instruct.  Sometimes 
it  has  been  a  child  of  my  own,  or  one  belonging  to 
the  family ;  sometimes  a  servant,  male  or  female  ; 
sometimes  a  peasant,  old  or  young,  who,  actuated 
by  an  unusual  desire  for  learning,  has  asked  me  to 
teach  him  to  read.  So  I  have  had  my  little  expe- 
rience, as  well  as  other  people ;  and  perhaps  a 
short  account  of  it  might  be  of  use  to  some  one  in 
a  similar  position. 

As  soon  as  the  child  can  speak,  teach  him  to 
read ;  and,  however  delicate  he  may  be,  do  not  be 
afraid  of  wearying  him,  if  you  go  the  right  way  to 
work. 

He  will  learn  with  more  or  less  facility,  accord- 
ing as  he  possesses  an  idea  of  form.  Try  to  culti- 
vate this  power  of  discrimination  by  frequently 

IGO 


OBJECT  TEACHING.  161 

calling  liis  attention  to  surrounding  objects.  Every 
child  notices  them  in  one  way  or  another.  Some 
will  ask  for  the  moon,  while  others  will  early 
understand  that  no  arm  is  long  enough  to  reach 
even  the  ceiling.  If  this  notion  of  distances  is 
slow  in  forming,  try  to  promote  its  development. 
By  his  idea  of  dimensions,  lead  him  to  compare  a 
large  tree  with  a  little  plant ;  make  him  observe 
the  tall,  slender  poplar,  the  bushy  chestnut-tree, 
the  round  orange  and  apple,  the  rose  round  and 
thick,  the  periwinkle  round  and  flat,  the  daisy 
round  too,  but  dentated.  K  you  have  your  watch 
in  your  pocket,  explain  to  him  its  perfectly  cir- 
cular form  by  means  of  a  piece  of  money  a  little 
smaller ;  by  a  handkerchief  describe  a  square ;  by 
a  domino,  an  oblong ;  by  the  gable  of  a  roof,  a 
triangle ;  by  a  stick,  a  straight  line  ;  and,  by  a 
hoop,  a  circle.  It  is  not  necessary  for  the  child  to 
learn,  like  a  lesson,  the  technical  terms  for  desig- 
nating these  forms  :  it  is  sufiicient  that  he  perceive 
the  difference. 

To  generalize  as  much  as  possible  the  observa- 
tion of  tendencies,  I  would  advise  that  children  be 
divided  into  two  classes,  —  those  who  are  observ- 
ing, and  those  who  are  not  observing.  The  former 
early  become  skilful  in  the  use  of  their  hands  and 


162  IMPRESSIONS  AND.  REMINISCENCES. 

bodies :  the  latter  seem  to  have  no  idea  of  danger, 
and  are  always  hurting  themselves.  The  former 
use  their  reason  early,  and  are  quick  to  learn :  the 
latter  acquire  knowledge  more  slowly,  sometimes 
considerably  so.  Help  them  to  obviate  this  natural 
difficulty  by  forcing  them  —  without  their  being 
aware  of  it  —  to  see  and  to  observe.  Put  into  the 
hands  of  the  absent-minded  or  indifferent  child 
such  toys  as  will  interest  him  by  their  form. 
Induce  him  to  raise  his  head,  to  look  about  him, 
above  and  below  ;  not  to  remain  a  stranger  to  the 
external  world,  not  to  spend  his  life  in  the  dreams 
and  fictions  of  play,  but  to  realize  that  there  are 
other  things  than  those  which  he  can  handle,  and 
that  some  of  these  are  similar  in  shape. 

Peasants,  strange  to  say,  are  very  unobserving. 
One  would  suppose  that  their  senses,  being  in 
continual  contact  with  objects  in  nature,  would 
be  well  developed  ;  but  it  is  exactly  the  reverse, 
especially  in  those  countries  which  are  not  very 
hilly.  They  often  form  a  poetical  conception  of 
the  whole  ;  but  any  detail  which  is  not  a  matter 
of  personal  interest  to  them  escapes  their  notice. 
From  being  ignorant  of  causes,  they  disdain 
them,  and  become  incapable  of  perceiving  them 
even  when   these   causes  produce  very  striking 


THE  FOUNDATION.  1G3 

effects.  This  is  why  it  has  been  possible  to  keep 
them  in  a  state  of  superstition,  and  teach  them 
to  be  satisfied  with  ridiculous  explanations.  The 
letter  of  religion  has  kept  them  children,  and 
their  physical  organization  has  suifered  from  the 
effect. 

So  it  is  very  difficult  for  them  to  learn  to  read. 
Let  us  interest  ourselves  for  them  as  for  our 
own  children,  and  try  to  alleviate  their  difficulty. 
The  child  subjected  to  such  discipline  as  I  have 
mentioned  will  feel  a  desire  to  trace  figures 
himself,  with  a  stick  upon  the  gravel,  witli  a 
piece  of  charcoal  upon  walls,  or  with  a  pencd 
upon  paper.  Furnish  him  with  the  means  of 
gratifying  this  desire  ;  or,  if  it  do  not  exist, 
stimulate  him  to  it  by  example.  Let  him  draw 
lines  in  every  variety  :  very  soon  he  will  learn 
to  form  0,  whicli  is  the  favorite  letter  of  little 
children.  Some  are  more  inclined  to  produce 
shapes  than  to  observe  them,  and  learn  to  read 
more  easily  after  knowing  how  to  write  ;  but  the 
greater  part  need  to  be  well  acquainted  with 
signs  before  being  able  to  reproduce  them.  It  is 
well,  also,  to  allow  them  to  draw  imaginary  fig- 
ures. They  will  always  make  straight  lines  or 
circles,  and  these  are  the  foundation  of  all  signs 
used  in  reading  and  writing. 


164  IMPJiESSTONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

The  varied  combinations  of  these  forms  are,  to 
one  of  medium  intellect,  a  source  of  considerable 
difficulty.  I  am  always  astonished  to  see  a  child, 
or  even  an  adult,  learn  the  alphabet.  The  ear 
retains  the  sound  more  easily  than  the  eye  retains 
the  form.  Many  pupils  can  recite  their  alphabet, 
and  yet  do  not  know  the  different  letters  when 
out  of  the  regular  order. 

Learning  should  be  rendered  easy ;  not  to  spare 
the  pupil  the  exertion  of  study,  which  is  a 
healthful  exercise  and  one  without  a  substitute, 
but  to  accustom  him  to  follow  a  simple  and  sys- 
tematic course.  It  is  the  want  of  this  system 
which  has  for  so  long  rendered  rudimentary 
education  diffuse  and  slow  of  progress.  Formerly 
years  were  spent  on  what  can  now  be  learned  in 
a  few  months.  There  have  been  improvements 
in  method,  and  there  is  room  for  still  greater 
improvement ;  but  no  method  is  good  for  any 
thing  if  we  are  unable  to  master  the  will  of  the 
pupil. 

I  suppose  that  all  adults  would  make  as  great 
an  effort  as  lies  within  their  power  ;  but  the  child 
who  has  a  great  desire  for  learning  is  an  excep- 
tion. This  would  not  be  the  case  if  childhood 
were  well  prepared  for  instruction  by  a  system 
of  moral  and  physical  education. 


SYSTEMATIC  PATIENCE.  165 

The  method  which  I  practised  with  my  grand- 
chikbeii  is  certainly  better  than  that  which  I 
used  for  my  own  children.  With  the  latter  I 
employed  the  ordinary  means,  incessant  little 
struggles  which  make  the  pupils  suffer  and  the 
parent's  heart  bleed.  After  more  reasoning  and 
a  longer  experience,  I  have  acquired  what  I  did 
not  then  possess,  —  a  systematic  patience  under 
every  trial. 

This  is  the  starting-point.  Suppress  the  least 
show  of  impatience.  Let  the  child  never  see  in 
your  countenance,  or  hear  in  the  tone  of  your 
voice,  the  slightest  change.  If  he  be  what  is 
denominated  wild^  he  can  be  controlled  only  by 
uniform  calmness.  If  he  be  mild  and  timid,  tlris 
calmness  will  give  liim  the  confidence  that  he 
lacks.  With  this  appearance  of  calmness  and 
good-nature,  you  can  assert  your  authority  with- 
out hurting  his  feeUngs,  without  arousing  that  in- 
stinct of  revolt  or  inert  resistance  which  forms  a 
part  of  the  uncultivated  mind.  Avoid  the  irri- 
tation of  your  nerves  as  you  would  a  contagious 
disease  of  which  the  child  would  be  in  imminent 
danger.  Nut  only  do  not  strike  him,  but  never 
raise  yonr  voice.  Use  neither  liasty  words  nor 
gestures :  do  as  you  would  to  tame  a  bird.     The 


166  IMPEESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

child  is  a  little  savage,  who  must  be  civilized 
without  his  being  aware  of  the  fact.  Do  not  try 
to  explain  the  necessity  of  education  until  he  has 
derived  some  benefit  from  it ;  for  if,  when  he  re- 
monstrates, you  begin  to  reason  with  him,  he  will 
bring  forth  arguments  of  his  own  to  oppose  yours, 
and  you  will  not  have  the  advantage  of  the  last 
word.  Skilfully  avoid  disputes  of  every  kind. 
This  will  perhaps  be  more  difficult  in  the  case  of 
an  intelligent  child  than  in  that  of  a  pupil  of 
medium  capacity.  The  former  will  be  as  skilful 
in  promoting  a  disturbance  as  you  in  quelling  it. 
Postpone  till  the  next  day  such  questions  as  in- 
volve any  disagreement.  Finally,  if  you  are  of  a 
nervous,  excitable  nature,  and  cannot  control  your 
feelings,  send  the  child  away.  You  would  not 
bring  him  up  well,  and ,  one  of  two  things  would 
result:  either  you  would  exasperate  his  temper, 
or  break  his  spirit,  one  of  which  is  as  dangerous 
as  the  other. 

Before  undertaking  the  education  of  a  child, 
then,  we  should  consider  our  own  education  ;  for 
we  are  entering  upon  an  apostleship  of  which 
we  ought  to  render  ourselves  worthy.  We  must 
possess  a  little  magnetic  virtue ;  for  the  child's 
feelings    are    acted    upon    more    easily   than   his 


IN  THE  LONG-RUN.  167 

intellect.  If  he  finds  that  you  are  the  calmest, 
most  indulgent,  and  most  persevering  person  with 
whom  he  is  concerned,  he  will  seek  you  from 
preference  ;  and,  in  the  long-run,  it  will  be  you 
who  will  be  most  successful  in  liis  education. 

I  say  in  the  long-run ;  for  childhood  has  its 
intervals  of  enthusiasm  and  languor,  and  cannot 
always  bestow  that  attention  which  j^ou  claim. 
Elementary  instruction  should  be  given  in  very 
small  doses.  It  is  cruel  as  well  as  dangerous,  to 
encourage,  through  vanity,  precociousness  of  per- 
ception. A  time  will  come  when  the  pupil  suc- 
cumbs physically  or  morally.  If,  at  any  time, 
you  requu'e  too  much  of  his  memory  or  his  will, 
a  feeling  of  disgust  will  be  the  consequence,  and 
you  will  be  punished  for  an  hour's  unreasonable- 
ness by  an  alternation  of  indifference  and  resist- 
ance. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  care  that  I  liave  sug- 
gested, there  will  very  frequently  be  silent  strug- 
gles, unmanifested  resistance,  and  singular  Avhims; 
for  the  child  is  superlatively  whimsical.  Ono  day 
he  complies  with  every  thing :  another,  lie  Avill 
do  nothing  without  arguing.  He  feels  the  need 
of  a  little  comedy,  and  he  feigns  to  have  lost  his 
memory.     Sometimes  he  wants  a  different  style 


168  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

of  drama ;  and,  if  he  succeed  in  making  you 
lose  your  patience,  he  is  either  satisfied  or  angry, 
perhaps  both  ;  but  this  is  emotion,  and,  in  reality, 
he  is  no  more  unreasonable  than  we  sometimes 
are  ourselves,  when  we  prefer  painful  and  danger- 
ous excitement  to  dull  resignation. 

Watch  the  child,  and,  as  soon  as  you  observe 
a  spirit  of  opposition,  turn  his  thoughts  in  some 
other  direction.  If  necessary,  end  the  lesson, 
without  allowing  him  to  perceive  the  true  cause. 
Pretend  that  it  is  on  your  own  account,  that  you 
have  some  business  that  needs  attention,  a  letter 
to  write,  or  that  you  do  not  feel  well.  He  will 
be  very  glad  to  be  dismissed,  but  will  return,  of 
his  own  accord,  to  his  lesson  the  next  day. 

Do  not  encourage  the  young  to  feel  proud  of 
their  intelhgence.  You  will  thus  aid  in  the 
excessive  formation  of  a  feeling  which  has  here- 
tofore been  latent ;  but  which,  developed  too 
early,  will  be  turned  to  a  bad  use.  The  next  day 
he  will  employ,  as  a  means  of  resistance,  that 
pride  which  you  sought  to  inculcate  the  previous 
day,  for  the  purpose  of  insuring  his  obedience. 
Do  not  forget  that  he  is  a  free  being,  and  that  he 
is  not  yet  sensible  of  the  bounds  of  his  lib.erty.  It 
is  therefore  very  imprudent  to  bestow  upon  him 


ON   GUARD.  169 

too  frequent  praise  or  blame,  according  as  he 
behaves  well  or  ill.  Sometimes  these  alternatives 
of  demeanor  are  involuntary  ;  but,  at  other  times, 
attempts  at  revolt  are  made  merely  to  disconcert 
the  teacher.  In  such  cases,  be  on  jonv  guard. 
If  the  lesson  has  been  well  recited,  applaud  only 
the  effort  and  the  reason  of  the  child  :  take  a 
moderate  satisfaction  in  the  fact  of  its  being  easy, 
whether  so  or  not.  If  the  lesson  has  been  poorly 
recited,  say  nothing ;  and,  if  it  has  been  intention- 
ally miserable,  do  not  appear  to  suspect  that  this 
was  done  on  purpose.  The  child  is  artless,  even 
in  his  acts  of  greatest  malice.  Sometimes,  aston- 
ished at  your  silence,  he  says  to  you,  "  I  recited 
my  lesson  very  badly."  Do  not  trouble  yourself 
to  answer  him  that  it  was  not  intentional.  He 
will  leave  in  surprise,  sly  or  confused,  according 
to  his  nature,  but  convinced  of  one  tiling,  that  his 
attempt  has  failed.  It  is  seldom,  too,  that  a  poor 
lesson  is  not  succeeded  by  several  very  good  ones. 
The  pupil  has  learned  for  himself  that  he  could 
not  make  you  give  up  teaching  him. 

Let  us  consider,  however,  exceptional  cases,  in 
wliicli  tlie  child's  passion  for  liliiid  resistance 
forces  you  to  resort  to  liarsli  treatment,  or  to 
yield.     There  are  such  natures,  not  wicked,  l)nt 


170  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

despotic,  that  would  be  driven  to  excess  by  an 
exercise  of  your  own  despotism.  Do  not  hesitate : 
yield,  but  do  not  let  it  become  apparent.  Attrib- 
ute the  resistance  of  the  child  to  some  ailment 
on  his  part  (you  may  not  be  mistaken),  and  post- 
pone the  lessons  for  a  time.  During  this  interval, 
observe  him  attentively,  and  very  quietly  repair 
the  foundation  of  his  moral  education.  Heal  the 
soul  before  trying  to  cultivate  the  mind. 

Do  away  with  all  kinds  of  deprivations  and 
punishments.  These  only  serve  to  destroy  the 
idea  of  duty,  which  is  the  most  difficult  idea  to 
introduce  into  a  child's  head.  It  must  slii3  in  by 
habit,  before  it  is  planted  there  by  reason.  Until 
the  age  of  eight  or  ten,  the  pupil  ought  to  receive 
this  simple  answer  to  his  everlasting  "  Why  ?  " 
"  You  are  obliged  to  learn,  and  I  am  obliged  to 
teach  you."  —  "  Who  obliges  us  to  do  it  ?  "  — 
"  Everybody  in  heaven  and  on  earth."  —  "  I  don't 
see  how."  —  "  You  are  too  young  to  see  it  now, 
but  you  will  by  and  by." 

Do  not  scruple  to  answer  him  by  mysterious 
oracles.  If  you  are  careful  to  tell  the  strict  truth 
through  this  oracle,  you  will  never  regret  after- 
wards having  given  it  to  him  under  a  veil.  Vv'e 
are   inclined   to   be   premature    in    explanations. 


THE  DESIRE  TO  LEARN.  171 

Children  are  made  to  yield  much  more  easily  by  a 
cautious  answer  than  by  argument. 

"  Alas  !  "  you  will  exclaim.  "  This  is  not  the 
way  children  are  brought  up." 

"  Alas ! "  I  shall  reply.  "  We  have  never 
known  how.     Let  us  learn." 

I  have  said  that  we  ought  not  to  stimulate  the 
intelligence  of  the  cliild  by  praise  ;  but  do  not  be 
sparing  in  approbation  and  encouragement  of  his 
efforts.  All  human  merit  lies  in  the  everlasting 
desire  to  learn :  vain  satisfaction  with  what  we 
know  puts  a  stop  to  real  knowledge.  We  must 
continue  to  learn  all  our  lives ;  and  we  should  not 
conceal  this  fact  from  the  child.  Give  him  this 
idea  of  himself:  that  he  will  be  nothing,  if  he 
knows  nothing  ;  that  he  will  be  a  little  better  for 
knowing  something;  but  that,  if  he  knows  a 
great  deal,  lie  will  still  be  far  from  knowing 
enough.  Do  not  take  from  him  the  pride  of 
conscience  ;  it  is  the  one  good  thing :  but  pre- 
serve him  from  tlic  pride  of  capacity.  If  he 
shows  signs  of  a  tardy  intellect,  do  not  allow  it  to 
be  a  source  of  mortification  to  him :  if  you  do,  lie 
will  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  submit,  with- 
out shame,  to  a  sort  of  degradation  ;  or  perhaps, 
roused  from  his  torpor  by  wounded  self-love,  ho 


172  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

will  earnestly  seek  the  gratifications  arising  from 
self-love.  Conscience  will  take  no  part  in  his 
efforts  to  attain  this  end. 

Accustom  the  child,  even  when  very  young 
(three  or  four  years  of  age),  to  the  regular  per- 
formance of  some  shght  daily  task.  If  you  can- 
not perceive  that  he  is  making  any  progress^  be 
neither  surprised  nor  uneasy  :  do  not  seek  for 
undue  stimulants ;  but  wait.  It  will  all  work 
right  in  time.  Certain  natures  have  their  time  of 
necessary  incubation,  but  obtain  a  better  knowl- 
edge of  what  they  have  been  slow  in  learning. 
Others  have  intervals  of  physical  languor,  the 
external  symptoms  of  which  are  scarcely  percep- 
tible, but  during  which  the  exertion  of  bodily 
development  has  a  direct  influence  upon  the  mind. 
If  there  be  suffering,  suspend  labor :  if  not,  con- 
tinue it ;  but  do  not  insist  on  the  result  being 
fruitful  and  apparent.  Except  for  very  important 
reasons,  we  ought  not  to  allow  the  brain  to  go  to 
waste,  or  interrupt  the  habit  of  exertion,  however 
slight  or  imperceptible. 

I  cannot  too  often  repeat  that  we  are  always 
too  busy  to  give  sufficient  attention  to  this  ele- 
mentary education  so  important,  which  is  the  key 
to  our  whole  moral  and  intellectual  future.     Let 


ELEMENTARY  EDUCATION.  173 

US  bestow  upon  it  our  careful  thought.  All  the 
future  studies  of  the  child  will  bear  marks  of 
the  intuition,  logic,  and  perseverance  which  you 
have  implanted  in  his  mind  in  the  days  of  its 
early  training.  I  favor  a  method  of  very  rapid 
readings  not  exactly  because  it  is  rapid,  but 
because .  it  is  clear  and  intelligible,  because  it 
accomplishes  more  without  requu'ing  any  extra 
exertion  ;  but  no  method  is  an  infallible  panacea. 
There  are  brains  that  cannot  be  perceptibly  hur- 
ried  ;  and  there  is  one  thing  that  I  would  impress 
upon  my  readers,  —  that  time  makes  no  difference 
in  thi.s  matter.  I  often  see,  in  families,  very  im- 
prudent prejudices.  We  are  too  apt  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  children,  anal^'ze  tliem,  and  criticise 
them,  as  we  would  men.  We  classify  them,  and 
sometimes  make  use  of  them  as  proof  against  or 
in  favor  of  certain  establislied  systems.  This 
analysis,  when  made  in  their  presence,  is  fatal. 

The  child  understands  and  takes  advantage  of 
the  character  attributed  to  him.  If  it  be  bad,  he 
turns  tliis  to  his  own  profit  and  amusement.  lie 
is  a  decided  fatalist,  and  says  of  his  own  accord, 
to  account  for  his  peculiarities,  "  Tliat  is  my  way." 
Even  if  you  have  the  prudence  to  avoid  explain- 
ing his  disposition  in  his  presence,  do  not  allow 


174  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

yourself  to  rely  too  miicli  on  your  own  explana- 
tion. You  have  not  the  power,  much  less  the 
right,  to  establish  the  limit  where  Nature  shall 
cease  her  operations  in  the  human  being.  I  have 
an  aversion  to  methodical  classifications  of  instinct 
and  character.  They  can  never  be  de^nitive, 
even  in  the  case  of  adults  ;  much  less  in  the  case 
of  these  malleable  beings  upon  whom  we  experi- 
ment. Man  is  a  far  more  complicated  product 
than  we  imagine.  Situated  as  he  is  between  two 
opposing  forces,  nature  and  civilization,  he  must 
assume  a  multitude  of  forms  before  his  comple- 
tion ;  but  his  transformations  are  so  rapid  that 
the  eye  cannot  always  keep  pace  with  them. 
The  judgment  of  your  pedagogism,  which  was 
correct  in  the  morning,  may  be  wrong  before 
night.  You  are  superintending  the  mysterious 
operations  of  an  alembic.  Do  not  pass  judgment 
until  you  have  given  it  a  fair  test. 

The  foregoing  is  to  impress  upon  my  readers 
the  necessity  of  absolute  patience  and  uniform 
good-nature.  If  kindness  of  heart  does  not 
prompt  these  feelings,  Reason  ought  to  suggest 
them.  Consult  her,  and  she  will  counsel  you  to 
be  just ;  and  indulgence  is  a  form  of  justice 
decidedly  necessary  for  childhood.  Without 
patience,  nothing  will  avail. 


PREMATURE  EDUCATION.  175 

I  do  not  approve  of  making  the  cliild  find  out 
for  himself  the  letter,  syllable,  or  word,  at  which 
he  hesitates.  I  prefer  to  prompt  him  every  time, 
without  suffering  him  to  observe  that  he  has 
encountered  a  difficulty.  I  prevent  all  exertion, 
so  as  to  secure  his  attention ;  which  would  be 
impossible,  if  I  allowed  the  young  brain  to 
become  fatigued.  The  child  does  not  complain 
of  being  tired,  because  he  does  not  know  it :  you 
must  manage  that  he  shall  not  be  tired.  After 
you  have  prompted  him  several  times,  he  will  try 
to  utter  quickly  what  has  before  puzzled  him,  so 
that  he  may  say  it  before  you.  By  using  this 
extreme  care  with  the  fragile  brain  that  you  wish 
to  develop,  you  may  commence  very  early :  other- 
wise, commence  late ;  for,  although  there  are 
many  disadvantages  in  so  doing,  it  is  preferable 
to  a  premature  and  forced  education. 

Do  not  furnish  children  with  primers  and 
spelling-books  indiscriminately.  Many  that  are 
in  common  use  contain  exercises  which,  if  the 
pupil  does  not  understand  them,  are  infinitely 
tiresome,  and,  if  he  is  unfortunate  enough  to 
understand  them,  intensely  foolish.  By  my 
method  I  require  merely  a  collection  of  sentences 
of    elementary  simplicity :    such   as,    "  The   rose 


176  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

smells  sweet ;  "  "  The  bird  sings  ;  "  "  The  sky  is 
blue  ;  "  "  The  moon  is  round  ;  "  The  sun  is  red  ;  " 
"  The  stars  are  bright,"  &c.,  —  every  thing  that 
is  connected  with  the  child's  daily  life. 

Sancta  dmplidtas !  But  I  am  not  going  to 
enter  into  a  detailed  criticism,  which  would  put 
me  out  of  tamper,  as  well  as  provoke  censure.  I 
shall  content  myself  with  discussing  two  general 
tendencies,  opposed  to  each  other,  but  leading  to 
the  same  result.  Religious  realism  and  material- 
istic  realism  are  the  tendencies;  fanaticism  and 
plunder,  the  means ;  tyranny,  the  final  end. 
Whether  this  come  from  above,  or  below,  the 
result  is  always  deterioration. 

I  do  not  like  to  have  the  child  carelessly  in- 
formed of  the  horrors  of  life,  the  wickedness  of 
men,  the  deformity  of  objects,  mortal  hatreds, 
blood  spilt  by  man,  the  torments  of  hell,  and  the 
anger  of  God,  as  if  they  were  quite  simple  affairs, 
against  which  we  must  harden  our  feehngs.  We 
cannot  keep  from  him  the  sight  of  evil  or  the 
terror  of  disasters.  The  rich  may,  to  a  certain 
extent,  preserve  their  young  family  from  such 
surroundings  :  the  poor  cannot.  Teach  him,  then, 
to  detest  the  evil  which  he  sees.  Do  not  encour- 
age  him    in    fatal    indifference,   or   in    so-called 


THE   GOOD  AND  BEAUTIFUL.  177 

stoicism,  philosophic  or  religious,  which  seems  to 
say,  "  Such  things  are :  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom 
to  make  the  best  of  it."  I  would  that  it  were 
possible  for  the  child  to  grow  up  without  the 
knowledge  of  evil  ;  but  such  a  thing  is  not  to  be 
thousrht  of.  Sin  is  universal.  There  is  not  such 
a  thing  as  a  peaceful  existence.  There  is  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  teach  him  to  love  the  good  and 
beautiful,  and  cultivate  within  him  the  holy 
flower  of  hope. 

Some  say  that  the  child  has  a  taste  for  destruc- 
tion. This  is  generally  true,  especially  as  regards 
boys.  Oppose  this  savage  instinct:  prevent  it 
from  degenerating  into  cruelty.  If  you  wish  him 
to  be  a  true  Christian,  never  mention  to  him  the 
punishments  of  hell.  If  you  wish  him  to  be  a 
true  man,  cultivate  in  him  a  love  for  his  fellow- 
creatures.  Therefore  do  not  tell  him  that  man  is 
of  no  value,  that  he  is  incapable  of  improvement, 
and  that  he  can  be  corrected  only  through  severe 
treatment ;  or,  that  the  future  is  either  absolute 
nonentity  or  everlasting  punishment.  Do  not 
hronze  him  with  fear,  which  gives  rise  to  egotism, 
nor  with  indifference,  which  sanctions  it.  Defer, 
as  long  as  possible,  giving  him  an  explanation  of 
murder;  and  if,  as  has  recently  happened  when 


178  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  entire  population  was  in  the  midst  of  disas- 
ters, it  has  been  impossible  to  keep  him  from  fright- 
ful spectacles  and  heart-rending  separations,  avail 
yourself  of  the  first  momentary  lull,  to  distract 
his  attention,  and  drive  these  scenes  from  his 
memory.  There  is  an  age  when  the  mind  must 
forget  or  perish.  For  this,  Nature  has  made  pro- 
vision. The  child  forgets  easily :  give  him  your 
help.  Do  not  recall,  in  his  presence,  catastrophes 
which  he  has  seen ;  and,  if  it  has  been  possible  to 
prevent  him  from  witnessing  them,  do  not  men- 
tion them  at  all. 

I  am  often  told  that  I  wrap  their  minds  in  too 
much  cotton.  Are  we  not  taught  this  by  Nature, 
which  implants  in  the  mother  an  instinct  for  pre- 
serving the  most  fragile  beings,  by  means  of  the 
utmost  caution  ?  Is  not  the  young  bird  kept  in 
the  softest  of  down  until  its  wings  have  grown  ? 
The  wings  of  the  mind  wiU  make  their  appear- 
ance in  due  time  ;  and  your  assistance  will  then 
be  needed  in  its  first  attempts  at  flight. 

For  example :  as  soon  as  the  child  is  able  to 
read  and  write,  he  will  feel  the  need  of  a  knowl- 
edge of  things  about  him,  —  the  earth,  and  the 
operations  of  nature.  I  should  commence  by 
geology,  the  liistory  of  the  soil,  and  treat,  in  turn, 


PREMATURE  RIPENING.  179 

of  the  first  manifestations  of  life,  its  successive 
clianges,  its  recovery  of  possessions,  mysterious 
successions,  and  multifarious  links.  Thus  we 
have  the  history  of  the  ground,  and  geography 
wiU  be  the  crowning  point. 

The  study  of  language,  an  art,  or  a  trade,  would 
require  two  or  three  years,  at  the  end  of  which 
time  we  should  have  reached  an  age  when,  our 
morals  being  established,  we  might  learn  with 
impunity  the  history  of  the  human  race,  and  the 
crimes,  follies,  and  misfortunes  which  assist  in  its 
formation  ;  we  should  then  be  capable  of  forming 
a  just  judgment  of  this  terrible  question  of  good 
and  evil.  Until  this  time,  teach  the  child  to 
understand  and  love  what  is  good,  by  a  continual 
inspiration  of  good  example  and  sweet  habits  of 
mutual  affection.  If  you  cannot  surround  the 
cliild  witli  domestic  harmony,  uprightness,  and 
good-nature,  it  ma}'  not  always  be  your  fault : 
only  do  not  be  astonished  lliat  liis  disposition 
grows  sour,  and  that  the  light  flickers  in  his 
disturbed  and  corrupted  mind.  Prematurely 
ripe,  the  fruit  which  you  are  cultivating  will  pre- 
serve the  bruises  ;  and  tlicse  will  result  in  disease, 
or,  if  notliiug  worse,  in  scars. 

1   have  been   told,  also,  "  What  you  desire  for 


180  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

the  child  is  an  impossibility.  His  life  is  so  inti- 
mately connected  with  that  of  adults,  that  he  will 
necessarily  meet  with  trials,  and  must  learn  to 
bear  them  with  submission."  Am  I  not  aware 
of  this  ?  All  that  I  ask  is,  that  you  frame  an 
ideal  of  education,  and  conform  to  it  as  closely 
as  possible  ;  and  that,  taking  advantage  of  early 
youth,  —  that  time  so  evanescent,  during  which 
the  child  belongs  more  to  you  than  to  the  external 
world,  —  you  devote  your  attention  to  the  devel- 
opment of  his  mind,  without  injur}^  to  his  body. 
Very  soon  he  wiU  need  armor,  to  fight  the  battle 
of  life.  Of  what  use  will  it  be,  if  the  wasted 
combatant  is  not  strong  enough  to  wear  it  ? 

But  the  school-teacher  is  taking  a  liberty,  and 
talking  too  much  philosophy.  Let  us  return  to 
elementary  studies,  v>^here  alone  she  feels  at  home  ; 
for,  though  having  obeyed  an  ideal,  she  has  still 
felt  the  great  necessity  of  observation  and  expe- 
rience. Contrary  to  a  widely  felt  prejudice,  she 
believes  that  writing  should  be  taught  almost  at 
the  same  time  as  reading. 

Writing  is  the  necessary  complement  of  the 
ideas  of  orthography  which  the  pupil  obtains  by 
reading.  He  will  learn  that  many  words  contain 
letters  that  are  not  pronounced ;  but  he  must  not 


THE  LITTLE  DETAILS.  181 

feel,  on  that  account,  that  they  do  not  exist,  and 
that  he  may  pass  over  them  without  notice.    Make 
him  write  fast.     This  is  like  learning  a  new  alpha- 
bet ;  but  he  has  abeady  been  trained  in  the  idea 
and  observation  of   forms.      Do   not  weary  him 
with  strokes  and  pot-hooks  for  more  than  a  day 
or  two.     You  cannot  expect  him  to  write  a  fine 
hand  at  the  outset.     His  small  hand  if  he  is  a 
child,  his  awkward  one  if  he  is  an  adult,  and  his 
nervous   system,  not   trained,  like  ours,  to   self- 
possession,  will  prevent  him,  for  a  long  time,  from 
producing  a  brilliant  calligraphy.     Put  a  pencil 
into  his  hands,  and  let  him  j^ractise  by  forming 
characters,  however  imperfect,  in  imitation  of  a 
written  page.     IMerely  require  that  the  intended 
words  be  in  a  hue,  and   the   letters   connected. 
When  he  commences  to  use  his  hand  with  a  little 
more  freedom,  give  him  some  advice  as  to  seating 
himself  comfortably,  neither  too  high  nor  too  low  : 
every  tiling  deperirls  upon  this.     Attend  to  the 
position  of  his  body.     The  pajjcr  should  be  placed 
directly  in  front  of  him,  and  his  right  elbow  should 
not  be  confined  t(j  his  bcjdy,  or  rest  upon  the  table. 
Study  his  conformation,  and  do   not   commence 
with   liira    until  you  are  sure  of  not  correcting 
it  too  suddenly  if  it  be  defective,  or  making  it 


182  IMPEESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

crooked  if  it  be  regular.  Do  not  allow  him  to 
write  or  read  every  day  in  the  same  place.  Let 
the  light  shine  sometimes  on  the  right,  sometimes 
on  the  left,  sometimes  behind,  and  sometimes  in 
front.  You  probably  know  the  necessity  of  this 
mode  of  treatment  when  he  is  asleep,  in  order  that 
his  eyesight,  his  brain,  and  his  whole  body  do  not 
develop  more  fully  on  one  side  than  on  the  other, 
which  is  very  frequently  the  case  during  the  period 
of  growth. 

When  you  have  scrupulously  taken  every  pre- 
caution, give  him  several  printed  models  in  differ- 
ent styles  of  writing,  and  let  him  copy  the  one 
Avhich  he  thinks  easiest.  Try  to  prevent  all  exer- 
tion, and  do  not  require  him  to  slant  his  letters 
from  right  to  left.  As  we  write  our  lines  from 
left  to  right,  it  is  easier  and  more  natural  to 
incline  the  letters  in  that  direction ;  and  experi- 
ence teaches  us  that  this  is  the  more  rapid  and 
less  fatiguing  style,  since,  instead  of  pressing  the 
arm  close  to  the  side,  it  leaves  it  free  ;  nor  does  it 
cause  the  shoulder  to  droop,  which  position,  after 
a  while,  becomes  cruelly  fatiguing  to  the  muscles. 
I  am  convinced  that,  in  many  cases,  the  liver, 
becoming  compressed  by  the  elbow  in  its  attempts 
to  slant  the  letters,  receives  injuries  of  which  the 


POSITION   OF  THE  BODY.  183 

cause  remains  unknown.  To  avoid  twisting  the 
body,  many  persons  whose  writing  inclines  very 
much  from  right  to  left  incline  their  paper  in  the 
same  direction,  thus  accustoming  themselves  to 
look  at  the  slanting  characters  which  they  are 
forming,  in  a  sort  of  cross-light  which  is  very 
hurtful  to  the  eyesight. 

The  body  should  be  erect,  the  paper  should  be 
placed  straight  and  in  front  of  the  writer,  and  the 
letters  should  be  vertical  and  round.  This  is  the 
most  legible,  the  most  rapid,  the  least  fatiguing, 
and  the  best  method. 

Do  not  confine  your  pujjil  to  any  particular 
style.  Calligraphic  signs  admit  of  much  variety. 
Require  him  to  join  his  letters,  and  write  each 
word  without  interruption.  If  he  succeed  in 
doing  this  with  ease,  and  without  having  any 
letter  deformed,  if  he  can  write  a  perfectly  legi- 
l)le  hand  without  any  fatigue,  he  understands 
writing  better  tlian  the  majority  of  adults. 

Confine  liim  to  the  use  of  a  pencil  for  a  long 
time,  as  tliis  glides  more  easily  than  a  pen.  As 
soon  as  lie  becomes  familiar  with  the  sinijjle  an<l 
easy  formation  of  all  the  letters,  let  hiui  icad  a 
short  pluaso  ;  and,  after  he  has  examined  it  atten- 
tively, close  the  book,  and  rc(iuest  him   to  write 


184  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  words.  He  will  then  become  familiar  with 
orthography,  which  every  one  does  not  know  on 
leaving  college,  and  of  which  it  would  be  well  to 
possess  a  slight  knowledge  before  entering. 

I  have  finished.  You,  people  with  good  inten- 
tions, but  slaves  of  habit,  will  not  listen  to  me  ; 
still  less,  you  who  take  no  interest  in  the  good  or 
bad  management  of  children ;  but,  if  I  have  per- 
suaded a  dozen  good  and  wise  mothers  of  families, 
my  time  and  my  trouble  will  not  have  been  spent 
in  vain. 

Patience  and  good  temper,  above  every  thing, 
brave  hearts !  Crovern  without  causing  tears,  and 
you  will  have  achieved  something  grander  and 
more  difficult  than  all  the  romances  of  your 
servant  and  friend,  Geokge  Sand. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  POETS  OP  TO-DAY. 

TO  CHAELES  EDMOND. 

SAINTE-BEUVE  has  said  somewhere,  that, 
after  having  read  and  digested  the  feverish 
verses  of  modem  poetry,  he  liked  to  read  once 
more  "  Petrarch's  most  crystalline  sonnets."  It 
was  about  thirty  years  ago  that  he  wrote  that. 
The  poets  of  to-day  have  made  an  entire  change : 
properly  speaking,  they  are  neither  classical  nor 
romantic.  They  are  painters.  Initiated  into  the 
secrets  of  the  studio,  they  have  learned  to  see 
Nature  in  all  her  details;  and  when  they  describe 
her  it  is  with  a  richness  of  epithet  which  is  like  a 
graduated  scale  of  the  finest  and  freshest  shades. 
This  new  school  is  a  progression,  like  every  idea 
that  is  tlioroughly  investigated;  but  it  has  one 
defect,  —  obscurit}'.  By  an  equal  distribution  of 
light,  it  exaggerates  the  relief  of  the  details  to 
the  detriment  of  the  principal  effect.  Certain 
strophes    are    so    polished    and    touched    n]»,    to 

185 


186  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

prevent  any  appearance  of  vulgarity,  that  they 
require  to  be  read  three  times  before  they  can  be 
fully  understood ;  and  I  must  acknoAvledge  that 
a  few  have  baffled  my  powers  of  interpretation. 
Classic  poetry  was  too  musical.  It  sacrificed 
energy  of  thought  to  rhythm  and  sonorousness. 
This  was  both  its  merit  and  its  defect,  as  the 
picturesque  is  to-day  the  merit  and  defect  of 
3'^oung  poets.  The  ancient  poets  styled  them- 
selves children  of  the  lyre :  those  of  the  present 
time  might  be  called  children  of  the  brush  or  the 
palette. 

They  certainly  took  a  step  towards  progress, 
when  they  ceased  imitating  Victor  Hugo,  and 
turned  their  attention  elsewhere.  They  cannot, 
perliaps,  do  better;  but  they  will  succeed  in  be- 
coming natural,  and  not  imagine  themselves  mas- 
ters through  a  borrowed  style,  but  become  so  in 
reality,  by  means  exclusively  their  own. 

Victor  Hugo  is  inimitable,  especially  now  that 
he  has  become,  as  we  may  say,  the  classic  type  of 
romanticism.  "  L'Annee  Terrible  "  is  perhaps  his 
best  work.  This  book  has  not  yet  been  justly 
estimated,  and  will  not  be  in  our  present  state  of 
undue  excitement.  It  is  fearfully  natural,  and 
wonderfully  graphic.     The  public   looks   into   it 


VICTOR  HUGO.  187 

for  political  emotions ;  for  every  page  utters  an 
appeal  for  immediate  action.  Yet  tliis  is  not 
what  the  critic  ought  to  seek.  His  judgment 
should  be  entirely  of  a  literary  nature ;  for  the 
poet's  point  of  view  is  his  existence,  his  life,  and 
no  one  has  the  right  to  ask  him,  "Why  do  you 
exist  ?  " 

The  life  of  this  great  poet  is  an  antithesis. 
With  his  eagle  eyes  he  gazes  to  the  right  and  left, 
above  and  below,  but  not  always  before  him, 
because  he  soars  aloft,  describing  great  circles, 
without  troubling  himself  about  any  fixed  course. 
Tliere  is  no  course  marked  out  for  him  who  lives 
in  space  illimitable,  and  soars  on  indefatigable 
wings.  Shall  we  quarrel  with  him  because  he 
does  not  understand  certain  men,  and  has  an  im- 
perfect perception  of  certain  things?  This  would 
be  an  idle  quarrel,  and  of  serious  inconvenience 
to  ourselves ;  for,  by  combating  with  what  seems 
to  us  erroneous  in  some  of  his  estimations,  wo 
should  be  overlooking  thi;  infinite  trutli  and 
strength  of  his  perception  as  a  whole. 

TliL'  poet,  and  especially  the  poet  raised  to  sncli 
eminence,  is  not  obliged,  like  us,  to  bo  on  Hk; 
watcli  for  danger.  Ho  would  not  suffer  from 
collision  with  any   unforeseen  obstacle,  but,  like 


188  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

Antocus,  rise  from  the  shock.  The  harm  is  in 
trying  to  convert  him  into  a  politician.  Even 
though  he  were  willing  to  submit  to  this  con- 
descension, to  attempt  discussion,  to  brave  ridi- 
cule, to  coldly  repulse  injustice,  the  thing  would 
be  impossible  :  he  is  too  passionate.  He  needs 
the  thunder,  to  avenge  personal  affront;  and 
nothing  but  thunder  will  suffice.  When  he  tries 
to  become  dogmatic,  he  is  no  longer  himself.  He 
can  handle  only  the  boundless :  this  is  his  privi- 
lege, his  right,  since  therein  lies  his  strength, 
since  his  grandeur  consists  in  passing  by  every 
goal  whatsoever,  and  since,  if  we  insisted  on  that 
practical  wisdom  employed  in  transitory  affairs, 
we  should  have  no  Victor  Hugo.  This  would  be 
depriving  France  of  her  crown.  Has  she  not 
already  suffered  enough  ?  She  still  retains  one 
sublime  poet,  one  unfettered  mind,  one  man  who 
looks  beyond  the  horizon,  and  who,  without 
regard  to  what  others  call  imi^ediments,  proclaims 
the  law  of  centuries  to  come  ;  and  shall  we  bid 
him  be  silent  ?  This  might  be  the  act  of  an 
assembly  terrified  by  the  frightful  tumult :  it 
could  not  be  that  of  a  clear  conscience. 

Our  sons  will  read  UAnnee  Terrible ;  but,  after 
having  read  of  it  in  history,  they  may  not  under- 


THE  POET'S  STYLE.  189 

stand  it.  They  will  appreciate  the  work  of 
the  poet,  and  will  point  to  the  causes  and  effects 
which  were  deprived  of  their  necessary  correc- 
tives, no  longer  necessary  to  our  sons,  because 
tliey  will  have  enfranchised  all  that  now  keep  us 
under  restraint.  In  these  grand  descriptions  of 
suffering,  which  the  great  poet  alone  can  approach 
without  reserve,  they  will  behold  the  immediate 
causes  of  fatal  effects.  They  will  seem  to  hear 
the  desperate  cry  of  expiring  France ;  and  from 
this  reverberating  cry  will,  perhaps,  be  dated  its 
return  to  life. 

It  is  not  talent  alone  that  constitutes  the  magic 
power  of  this  poet.  His  style  is,  perhaps,  not 
always  irreproachal)le.  Repetitions  occur,  and 
passages  which  rely  unskilfully  and  unscrupu- 
lously on  the  waves  of  insi)u-ation.  His  style 
contains,  too,  a  little  ancient  monotony,  which, 
never  being  able  to  turn  into  vacuity,  turns  some- 
times into  the  mournful,  like  a  bas-relief  fastened 
to  the  De  Profundis  of  a  cathedral.  However 
disconsolate  the  subject,  we  always  like  to  find 
some  life  there,  even  in  death  ;  ])ecauso  the  breath 
of  the  poet  is  life  itself,  always  triumphing  over 
nihihty.  But  there  are  passages  upon  wliich 
we  cannot  dwell,  so  quickly  are  our  minds  borne 


190  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

aloft.  Others,  if  less  powerful,  would  perhaps 
be  more  skilful  ;  for  verse  is  nowadays  carried 
to  a  wonderful  degree  of  adroitness ;  but  the  true 
power  of  emotion  is  that  which  increases  as  it  is 
prolonged,  like  a  protracted  peal  of  thunder,  inter- 
rupted though  never  exhausted  by  repeated  re- 
verberations. So,  in  subjects  of  a  different  nature, 
this  regular  and  equally  astonishing  progression  of 
serenity  may  be  likened  to  a  sunrise,  in  which 
the  light  finally  becomes  so  intense  as  to  dazzle 
every  one.  This  is  that  extraordinary  gift,  unri- 
valled personality.  This  power  precludes  neither 
tenderness  nor  grace.  The  lion  exhibits  the 
coquettish  ways  of  the  bird,  a  maternal  tender- 
ness for  children,  and  outpourings  of  the  heart, 
which  call  forth  tears.  The  verses  to  "  Little 
Jeanne,"  and  to  "  The  Sick  Child,"  will  ever 
remain  pure  pearls  in  that  magic  casket  which 
contains,  like  those  in  Oriental  legends,  sunbeams, 
clouds,  and  tempests. 

I  have  lately  been  reading  other  poets.  Al- 
though I  have  no  right  to  form  here  a  literary 
salon  (besides,  it  is  not  in  my  line),  there  is 
one  person  whom  I  should  like  to  mention  next 
to  Hugo,  because —  It  happened  one  evening 
among    a   few    choice    friends.     Paul    de   Saint- 


THE  RANK   OF  BOUILnET.  191 

Victor  had  just  been  reciting  in  an  admirable 
tone  of  voice,  and  with  an  irresistiljle  accent, 
Le  Vieux  Cajjitaine.  Bouilhet  "was  requested  to 
recite  La  Colomhe,  which  commences  his  book 
of  posthumous  poetry. 

"  After  Victor  Hugo ! "  he  said,  smiling. 
"  Oh !  never." 

This  modesty  entitled  him,  in  my  opinion,  to  a 
higher  estimation  by  us  than  by  himself.  There 
is  no  occasion  for  ranking  any  particular  person 
first,  second,  or  third  after  the  master ;  because, 
without  controversy,  the  latter  will  always  stand 
at  the  head  of  the  illustrious  cortege  ;  but  I  give 
Bouilhet  his  rank,  as  chance  has  thrown  into 
my  hands  that  volume  from  beyond  the  tomb, 
carefully  edited  by  his  faithful  friend  Gustave 
Flaul)ert.  Bouilhet  belongs,  I  believe,  to  the  pic- 
turesque, very  learned,  and  rather  choice  school, 
of  which  I  spoke  at  the  commencement  of  this 
chapter;  but  he  possesses  the  merit  of  a  vivid 
clearness,  wliich  interferes  in  no  way  with  dis- 
tinction of  style,  and  elevation  of  thought.  lie 
has  grace,  enthusiasm,  imagination.  lie  taslad 
his  Muse.  In  his  latter  years  he  became  master 
of  her,  and  wiotf  witliout  apparent  effort.  He 
seemed  to  improvise,  which  is,  in  my  opinion,  the 


192  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

grand  expression  of  talent.  In  an  entertainment 
given  at  the  Odeon  in  honor  of  his  memory,  the 
day  after  his  death,  the  literati  of  Paris  listened 
to  a  selection  of  exquisite  pieces  recited  by  some 
of  the  greatest  artists.  Madame  Plessy's  render- 
ing of  La  Berceuse  Philosophique  is  still  remem- 
bered :  — 

"Monsieur,  I'enfant  qu'on  attendait, 
Soyez  le  bienvenu  sur  terre!  " 

This  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  ;  and  there  are  more  than 
one  in  this  volume  so  sadly  named  Dernieres 
ChanBons.  One  of  these,  to  which  I  give  the 
preference,  is  entitled  Sombre  Eglogue :  — 

LE   VOTAGEUB. 

L'ombre  sans  lune  a  couvert  la  campagne. 
Oil  t'en  vas-tu,  p^tre  silencieux? 

LE    PATRE. 

O  voyageur,  le  souci  m'accompagne, 

Et  quand  tout  dort,  je  marche  sous  les  cieux,  &c. 

I  have  been  fortunate  ag^ain  in  findinsr  time 
to  read  ^schylus,  translated  by  M.  Leconte  de 
Lisle.  The  latter  is  himself  a  great  poet,  and 
possesses  such  decided  originality  that  he  has 
become  the  founder  of  a  school.  We  owe  him  a 
sincere   debt   of  gratitude  —  and   this   debt  is   a 


MISSION   OF  LITERARY  MINDS.  193 

national  one  —  for  continuing,  in  the  midst  of  the 
tragic  events  of  these  hiter  times,  his  severe  task, 
and  furnishing  us  with  a  true  idea  of  the  father 
of  tragedy.  M.  Leconte  de  Lisle  has  already 
given  us  Homer.  He  alone,  I  think,  could  faith- 
fully portray  the  grand  simplicity  of  these  ancient 
styles  without  marring  their  beauty.  His  has 
been,  apparently,  the  patient,  thankless  toil  of 
him  who  washes  gold  for  the  benefit  of  others ; 
but  who  could  be  a  better  judge  of  pure  gold  than 
he  who  bears  within  him  a  fruitful  mine  ? 

You  have  given  me  a  work  to  read  from 
-<Eschylus,  which,  be  it  said  without  offence, 
shows  a  wonderful  appreciation  of  the  author : 
so  I  associate  you  with  the  glory  due  the  earnest 
worker  who  has  made  us  acquainted  with  this 
warbler. 

Literary  minds  have,  at  the  present  time,  a 
clearly  apjiarent  mission.  It  is  for  them  to  sup- 
port our  only  remaining  standard,  the  intellectual 
superiority  of  France.  Whilst  wc  possess  the  first 
poets,  the  finest  painters,  and  the  greatest  musi- 
cians, we  can ,  protest  against  tliat  decline  ^\ith 
which  we  arc  tlireatened.  Through  the  vivid 
power  of  genius  and  talent,  by  tlic  eternal  vitality 
of    our    Latin    race,   we    may    take    our    revenge. 


194  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

Taste  is  our  acknowledged  speciality.  Those 
who  are  dull  of  appreciation  strive  to  regard  it  as 
a  useless  gift,  when  in  reality  it  is  the  true  source 
of  fruitful  selections  in  the  moral  order.  Without 
poetry  in  literature,  painting,  and  music,  in  sculp- 
ture and  architecture,  even  in  those  industrial 
pursuits  which  are  so  closely  allied  to  the  arts, 
no  people  can  hope  for  a  future.  Those  who 
should  attempt  to  dispense  with  it  would  see 
their  material  force  rapidly  weaken,  and  become 
exhausted.  Poetry  is  the  ardor  of  sentiment, 
something  innate,  alternating  from  restraint  to 
discharge,  river  and  brook,  into  the  bed  of  talent. 
Taste  is  the  literary  floodgate,  which  distributes 
these  salubrious  waters,  causing  fertility  and  life. 
Without  taste,  we  should  have  nothing  but  inun- 
dations, confusion,  or  disasters.  Be  proud  of 
possessing  taste :  it  is  the  great  inventor,  the 
divine  equilibrium  which  nothing  can  disturb 
or  destroy.  What  military  campaign,  however 
wisely  conducted,  can  compare  with  the  artistic 
campaign  through  which  our  painters  have  just 
passed  at  the  late  Exposition  ?  Who  expected  to 
find  the  general  progress  so  apparent,  or  to  behold 
such  a  remarkable  number  of  excellent  and 
charming   productions,    just   at    the    close   of    a 


ART  AND   THE  FRENCH.  195 

tempest  which  seemed  to  have  swept  away  every 
thing  ?  Messrs.  Germans,  who  are  so  military ; 
Messrs.  Russians,  who  are  so  powerful ;  Messrs. 
Americans,  who  are  so  wealthy,  —  where  are 
your  pictures  and  your  painters?  Some  of  you 
have  bought  museums  with  money,  others  have, 
collected  them  by  plunder ;  but  which  of  you  is 
the  indefatigable  producer,  the  fruitful  inventor  ? 
Our  enemies  have  believed  they  could  destroy  us 
by  cannon,  and  strip  us  of  our  money ;  but,  as  if 
by  magic,  we  fill  the  market  with  a  fresh  harvest, 
sown  and  ripened  beneath  their  volleys. 

I  was  at  Paris,  a  few  days  ago,  in  the  bare 
and  simple  parlor  of  a  great  artist.  Nothing,  or 
almost  notliing,  relieved  the  emptiness  of  tliis 
apartment,  — merely  a  piano  and  some  chairs.  In 
a  little  galler}^  adjoining  was  an  organ  with  a 
sublime  tone,  played  by  a"  modern  master,  a  few 
pictures  from  the  ancient  masters,  and  a  marble 
bust  of  the  great  artist  herself,  a  beautiful  bust 
indeed.  Upon  the  stairs  were  two  large  vases  of 
wild  flowei-s.  The  taste  for  these  flowers  has 
reached  I'aris.  Tins  is  a  mark  of  progress.  ( )iir 
rustic  (Ima,  whicli  is  so  cliarming  and  so  rich,  is 
at  last  appreciated;  very  soon  a  thorougli  knowl- 
edge of  it  will  be  acciuired.     It  is  pre-eminently 


196  IMPEESSIONS  AND  REMTNISCENCES. 

a  democratic  luxury,  a  symbol  of  future  equality, 
the  portable  garden  of  tbe  rich  and  the  poor,  the 
mania  of  innocent  plunder,  which  does  the  young 
cornfields  so  much  good  that  the  proprietors  ought 
not  to  complain. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  evening,  the 
youngest  member  of  the  family,  a  fine  boy  of 
fourteen  years,  accompanied  on  the  piano  by  his 
illustrious  mother,  played  the  violin  with  that 
compass  and  that  freedom  of  execution,  that 
soundness  and  depth  of  feeling,  which  denote 
a  pure  and  susceptible  conscience,  nourished  in 
the  school  of  truth.  Afterwards  two  beautiful 
young  girls,  charming  in  their  natural  simplicity, 
delighted  us  with  their  clear  voices,  so  nearly 
alike,  and  harmonizing  so  exquisitely,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  distinguish  one  from  the  other.  Their 
mother,  who  is  a  fine  -pianist,  accompanied  them 
also.  Then  she  sang  a  solo  herself.  I  had  not 
heard  her  for  twenty  years.  She  has  attained  the 
highest  style,  and  possesses  that  conception  of  this 
great  art  which  renders  the  interpreter  worthy  of 
the  originator. '  She  gave  us  Gluck,  and  was 
sublime.  A  feeling  of  emotion  seized  the  audi- 
ence, which  was  composed  entirely  of  enthusiastic 
artists;   and  it   seemed   to   me   as   though  some 


THE  SPELL  OF  MUSIC.  197 

Grecian  god  passed  through  our  smoking  ruins. 
While  listening,  I  had  forgotten  every  thing,  my 
melancholy  feelings  about  conquered  France,  her 
devasted  population  and  dishonored  capital,  the 
discords  of  the  present,  and  the  intrigues  of  the 
enemy  for  the  future.  When  I  returned  home,  it 
all  came  back  to  me ;  and  I  wondered  how  such 
horrible  things  could  have  been  as  far  from  my 
mind,  for  a  few  hours,  as  if  they  had  never 
occurred.  The  sun  of  Gluck  and  Viavdot  had 
banished  my  fi-ightful  dream.  What  is  this  power 
of  the  beautiful,  which  lifts  us  from  an  ocean  of 
dismal  thoughts,  and,  like  some  blessed  wave, 
casts  us  upon  a  Promised  Land  ?  Ah !  let  it 
take  its  flight,  this  hope,  the  only  one  that  is 
genuine  and  eternal,  bearing  us  from  heartrending 
scenes,  and  rekindling  within  us  the  fire  of  en- 
thusiasm, that  noble  outpouring  of  the  mind 
towards  every  thing  that  is  great. 

NoiiANT,  July  12,  1872. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  REVOLUTION  FOR   AN  IDEAL. 

SHALL  we  double  the  cape  of  tempests ?  Let 
us  try  to  do  so.  I  regard,  as  the  means  of 
success,  perfect  sincerity,  and  an  impartial  criti- 
cism on  all  occurrences,  of  whatever  nature. 

I  am  not  fitted  to  accomplish  so  important  a 
task.  Confined,  as  I  am,  to  a  domestic  life,  to  my 
occupations,  and  intimate  social  relations,  to  which 
I  am  drawn  both  by  duty  and  the  cravings  of 
my  nature,  I  have  but  a  distant  view  of  men  and 
occurrences.  This  does  not  prevent  me,  however, 
from  sometimes  indulging  in  leflections,  and  form- 
ing an  opinion  upon  the  general  issue  of  events. 

If  I  should  undertake  to  pass  judgment  on 
them,  I  should  not  now  attempt  to  lay  aside  the 
opinion  of  any  one,  and  offer  my  own  as  a  dogma. 
The  time  has  arrived  when  we  must  acknowledge 
the  liberty  of  conscience  to  such  an  extent  as  not 
to  regard  as  inimical  the  man  who  thinks  differ- 

198 


LIBERTY  OF  CONSCIENCE.  199 

ently  from  ourselves,  unless  we  would  keep  up  a 
fight  with  one  another  and  perish. 

Driven  to  the  necessity  of  a  mutual  understand- 
iDg,  at  whatever  cost,  our  situation,  and  that  of 
all  who  love  their  country,  is  not  as  bad  as  it 
might  have  been  after  such  distressing  calamities. 
It  is  even  comparatively  good  ;  but,  if  we  ruin  it, 
we  shaU  be  not  only  foolish,  but  criminal,  crimi- 
nal towards  our  country,  the  future,  and  our  own 
children. 

Is  it  impossible  to  demonstrate  this  to  all,  even 
to  extreme  parties? 

I  will  ])egin  with  the  latter,  because  they  are 
the  least  discerning  in  the  face  of  danger. 

I  shall  not,  however,  speak  of  that  party  formed 
from  the  Commune,  because  I  see  no  formula  in 
their  acts  or  their  speeches.  All  that  has  Ijecome 
manifest  in  the  confusion  of  their  aspirations  is  the 
image  of  chaos ;  and,  as  chaos  dwelt  also  in  the 
opposite  aspirations,  they  sought  to  make  Paris  a 
rendezvous  for  partisans  at  war  with  France.  The 
truth  is,  that  Paris  was  for  a  moment  deceived  as  to 
the  extent  of  the  calamities  to  France,  and  began 
to  suspect  treason  ;  which  suspicion  was  immedi- 
ately and  very  unjustly  cast  ujton  those  men  wlio 
had  been  placed  and  maintained  in  power  during 


200  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

the  siege.  On  seeing  the  attitude  of  the  Assembly 
of  Bordeaux,  Paris  was  again  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  the  majority  had  it  in  their  power  to 
restore  the  monarchy,  and  that  M.  Thiers  joined 
in  their  cause.  So  Paris  formed  the  Commune, 
believing  this  to  be  a  power  of  service  to  the 
republic.  Paris  was  republican,  and  was  desper- 
ate. That  is  not  belonging  to  a  party:  it  is  being 
a  man  and  a  patriot. 

Paris  was  mistaken  a  third  time  in  supposing 
that  she  could  be  saved  from  a  monarchy  by  a 
party  mainly  formed  from  the  "  peoi^le."  This 
party  never  really  existed,  since  it  was  devoid  of 
the  slightest  harmony,  the  least  feeling  of  union, 
or  any  method  whatever  in  the  strange  form  of 
government  which  it  assumed.  It  displayed  all 
sorts  of  attempts,  of  fancies,  and  of  pretensions 
to  social  science ;  but  at  foundation  there  was 
nothing  but  passions,  dreams,  or  longings.  Am- 
bition, ignorance,  and  vanity  ruled,  each  pulling 
its  own  way ;  the  bad  unmindful  of  all  save 
themselves,  the  good  incapable  of  organizing 
disorder,  and  the  worthless  foolishly  infatuated 
with  their  momentary  importance.  There  can  be 
no  party  where  there  is  no  common  principle ;  and 
to  attempt  to  seize,  by  main  force,  what  does  not 


RADICALISM.  201 

belong  to  us,  before  establishing  our  right  to 
possess  it,  is  not  a  principle  in  any  country  in 
the  world.  The  Commune,  then,  sinks  into  the 
domain  of  material  doings,  •  and  is  not  to  be 
discussed ;  which  does  not  mean  that  the  people 
have  no  right  to  the  discussion  of  their  own 
interests  :  this  is  quite  another  affair,  and  I  shall 
not  advert  to  it  again  except  from  necessity. 

Putting  the  Commune  out  of  the  discussion, 
then,  I  would  address  myself  to  radicalism,  and 
inquire  if  it  is  sufficiently  versed  in  social  and 
political  science,  to  accept  once  more  the  immedi- 
ate and  exclusive  government  of  affiiirs.  It  lias 
just  made  a  trial,  which  has  proved  disastrous. 
It  could  not  save  invaded  France ;  it  could  not 
restrain  the  passions  of  the  people.  It  was  out- 
flanked, betrayed,  rendered  powerless.  It  lias 
tendered  its  resignation,  but  at  the  right  time  and 
place.  This  party  (for  this  is  a  genuine  one ;  it 
has  its  formula,  and  is  no  more  lacking  in  men  of 
al)ility  than  any  other  party)  is  strong  iu  that  it 
is  the  fraction  of  a  more  extensive  party,  which 
flcsires  the  republic,  red  or  white,  —  emphatically 
desires  it,  and  will  have  it.  By  the  side  of  these 
^formulated  aspirations,  place  the  lofty  aspiration 
for  liberty,   which  docs  not  feel   the   need   of  a 


202  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

formula,  but  may  be  identified  under  the  form  of 
a  liberal  party  militant,  and  you  will  have  a 
nation  that  desires  to  belong  to  herself,  and  not 
be  dependent  on  any  exclusive  party. 

Hence  arises  that  tendency  of  the  multitude, 
which,  at  times,  are  ready  to  support  radicalism, 
to  resist  it  at  a  given  moment,  or  abandon  it 
without  excuse,  for  fear  of  some  new  tyranny. 
Radicalism  has  received  so  many  and  such  severe 
lessons,  that  it  should  be  careful  to  deserve  no 
more.  For  this  reason,  it  should  take  into  con- 
sideration the  age,  and  moral  resistance.  It 
should  lay  aside  the  revolutionary  dream  which 
consists  in  renewing,  out  of  all  reason,  a  glorious 
past,  but  not  accepting  its  dark  side.  Without 
repudiating  the  vast  power  and  great  advantages 
of  this  party,  it  should  have  courage  to  break 
with  certain  traditions  which  are  revolting  to  the 
conscience  of  the  present  day.  In  short,  it  ought 
to  accept  the  forms  of  modern  life,  and  struggle 
against  constituting  the  antithesis  of  the  clerical 
party,  whose  intolerance  and  passions  it  has  but 
too  well  imitated. 

It  seems  as  though  the  radicals  must  have  real- 
ized this  necessity  when,  seeing  the  party  losing 
its  identity,  they  grouped  around  M.  Thiers,  the 


THE   CHURCH.  203 

expression  of  dominaut  liberalism.  Their  evolu- 
tion must  have  been  repugnant  to  every  shade 
of  socialism ;  nevertheless  they  acted  very  wisely, 
and  I  like  to  think  that  the  majority  displayed 
more  patriotism  than  tactics  in  this  evolution. 

Let  this  party,  and  those '  allied  to  it,  feel  that 
their  situation  is  far  from  being  desperate.  Radi- 
calism will  meet  with  certain  triumph  at  the  elec- 
tions which  will  follow  the  decease  of  the  actual 
assembly.  Liberalism  wishes  for  antagonists  of 
the  monarchy  and  of  the  Church.  Now,  as  ever, 
it  will  require  of  candidates  of  the  moment  only 
the  passion  of  the  moment.  If  the  radicals  do 
not  become  too  much  elated  by  their  victory,  if 
they  can  give  as  good  an  accoimt  of  what  their 
electors  do  not  wish  as  of  what  they  really  do  wish, 
they  will  be  able  to  do  their  country  an  immense 
service :  if  not,  they  will  surrender  lier  to  the 
disturbances  from  which  we  are  still  suffering. 

Facing  radicalism,  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
battle  front,  stands  the  Church,  in  a  threatening 
attitude,  and  replete  with  worldly  ambition.  It, 
too,  has  ramifications  extending  throughout  the 
universe,  a  formulated  doclrinc,  enthusiastic  ora- 
tors, pretensions  to  power,  and  the  sympathy  of 
numerous  adherents ;  but  it,  too,  rests  upon  a  sort 


204  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

of  religious  liberalism,  which  does  not  join  in  the 
Catholic  radicalism  of  its  enterprises.  It,  too,  owes 
its  preponderance  of  power  to  a  need  of  the 
moment,  —  that  of  peace  at  all  hazards.  Nor  was 
every  one  actuated  by  cowardice  in  demanding 
peace  at  all  hazards.  The  majority  felt  the  im- 
potence of  radicahsm,  and  saw  disaster  inevitable. 
They  tried  to  confront  radicalism,  which  pre- 
tended to  go  to  the  extent,  with  the  Church, 
which  desired,  or  seemed  to  desire,  a  compromise. 
Disgust  at  the  present  state  of  affairs,  and  fear 
of  worse  to  come,  led  to  this  vote  as  in  a  year 
hence,  perhaps,  they  will  lead  to  the  other  ex- 
treme. Clerical  influence,  then,  is  spurious,  or,  at 
all  events,  very  precarious ;  and  its  thirst  for 
dominion  would  not  be  quenched,  even  if  it 
possessed  that  influence  in  the  assembly  for  which 
it  is  so  ambitious.  If  it  continues  to  attempt  a 
restoration  of  the  past,  it  will  fall  with  a  crash ; 
while,  with  a  more  enhghtened  idea  of  the  needs 
of  modern  Hfe,  it  would  last  as  it  ought,  and 
might  derive  advantage  from  those  ideas  of  toler- 
ance and  liberty  which  are  in  the  true  spirit  of 
general  aspirations. 

On  the  whole,  many  liberals,  and  even  certain 
radicals,  are  Catholics.     Catholicism   is  an  indi- 


RELIGION  AND  POLITICS.  205 

vidual  belief,  and  does  not  belong  to  any  party. 
It  is  an  outrage  to  a  religion,  it  is  like  renouncing 
and  destroying  it,  to  convert  it  into  a  political 
means.  Many  Catholics  have  this  feeling^,  —  at 
present,  the  majority.  I  know  of  many  who 
oling  to  the  faith,  yet  are  unwilling  to  be  called 
clerical,  because  this  political  flag  is  prejudicial  to 
their  political  opinions. 

This  is  the  case  with  the  peasant,  whose  deposit 
at  the  ballot-box  is  so  considerable.  He  wishes 
his  mass  and  his  religious  festivals.  He  is  opposed 
to  the  re-establishment  of  the  Bourbons. 

So  religion  -will  not  take  an  active  part  in  the 
coming  electoral  struggles ;  and  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  the  dissenters  will  not  bestow  upon  it 
the  slightest  attention.  The  all-important  busi- 
ness will  be  to  repulse  the  efforts  of  a  party 
whose  principles  of  authority  carried  to  excess  are 
becoming  a  law  of  legislation.  I  do  not  antici- 
pate any  difficulty  here,  as  tlie  right  and  left 
central  parties  are  destined  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing on  neutral  ground,  whither  they  will  be 
irresistil)ly  impelled  by  liberalism. 

The  moderate  element,  Avliich  has  stood  the  late 
terrible  commotions,  and  which  is  the  oidy  vilal 
and  dural>le  element  of   actual   France,   wUl  Ijc 


206  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

forcibly  confronted  with  the  social  question,  will 
succeed  in  understanding  it,  and  will  work  ear- 
nestly and  usefully  for  its  solution.  All  decrees 
of  the  present  time  are  manifestly  transitory : 
they  are  but  the  swell  of  the  billows  after  a 
storm.  If  earnest  minds  can  only  refrain  from 
fatal  precipitance,  indi^'idual  manias,  and  blind 
ambition,  France  will  effect,  before  she  is  ten 
years  older,  and  without  striking  a  blow,  a  mighty 
and  magnificent  revolution.     Will  this  happen? 

This  revolution  will  not  be  what  international 
relationship  would  call  the  triumph  of  democracy. 
No  :  the  poor  will  not  violently  despoil  the  rich, 
the  ignorant  will  not  bear  the  responsibility  of 
power,  nor  an  illiterate  class  obtrude  itself  on  a 
nation  as  arbiter  of  her  destiny.  Such  is  a  wild 
and  stupid  dream.  We  do  not  propose  another 
surprise  favored  by  exceptional  circumstances; 
and,  if  we  did,  it  would  Jbe  but  another  storm  of 
a  few  days'  duration.  One  contingency  alone 
could  give  it  a  duration  of  years ;  that  is,  if  the 
clerical  party  should  attain  to  power.  Oh !  then 
what  a  frightful  re-action  would  take  place  from 
one  end  of  France  to  the  other,  for  the  restora- 
tion of  Uberty !  and,  as  the  vote  of  the  majority  is 
guided  essentially  by  instinct,  they  would  resort 


FRATERNITY  OR  DEATH.  207 

to  any  means,  even  terror,  for  establishing  tliis 
antithesis,  security. 

Has  the  clerical  party  such  a  thirst  for  mart}'r- 
dom  that  it  would  drag  France  into  the  ahyss 
with  itself  ?  Let  us  hope  not,  and  let  us  seek  to 
discover  what  will  be  the  triumph  of  democracy 
when  its  time  comes. 

The  human  ideal,  like  the  social  ideal,  is  the 
attainment  of  equality  ;  but  first  it  is  necessary  to 
understand  its  nature,  —  to  know  in  what  it  con- 
sists, and  what  are  the  rights  that  it  sanctions, 
and  the  duties  that  it  imposes.  Fraternity  or 
death  was  a  beautiful  device,  when  understood 
in  its  true  sense  ;  viz.,  to  fight  to  become  men^ 
or  to  die!  But  when  interpreted  thus,  Be  our 
brothers,  or  die  by  our  haiidsf  it  became  absurd 
and  abominaljle.  Unfortunately,  it  is  still  taken 
in  this  sense  by  certain  democratic  schools ;  and 
in  order  to  obliterate  this  notion,  as  an  outrage  to 
the  human  conscience,  the  entire  people  must 
attain  to  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  Nor 
are  they  so  far  removed  from  this  as  one  might 
suppose,  after  the  late  crisis.  Without  any 
d,oubt,  a  very  small  nniii1)cr  of  violent  men  were 
solely  responsible  for  the  excesses  and  crimes 
committed.     As  to  the  numerous   champions   of 


208  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

the  democratic  idea,  there  was  a  mistaken  notion 
of  right,  but  by  no  means  a  denial  of  the  law  of 
conscience.  The  first  step  towards  social  equi- 
librium is  gratuitous  and  liberal  instruction.  We 
shall  probably  have  quite  the  reverse  ;  but  let  us 
wait  for  a  while  with  resignation.  The  words 
social  equilibrium  have  escaj)ed  my  pen  ;  and  I  am 
inclined  to  use  them  instead  of  social  question, 
because  it  is  the  equilibrium  that  determines  the 
question. 

Is  not  equilibrium  the  secret  of  the  universe,  — 
the  natural  or  divine  law,  by  virtue  of  which  we 
exist  ?  Are  not  all  our  violations  of  equilibrium 
checked  by  a  compulsory  return  to  that  equi- 
librium, or  else  temporarily  chastised  by  a  tem- 
porary derangement  of  equilibrium  ? 

Social  equality  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
the  share  of  each  in  the  social  equilibrium ;  and, 
if  we  seek  for  a  law  in  natural  equality,  we  shall 
find  it  nowhere  but  in  the  counterpoise  of  forces 
opposed  to  one  another.  There  are,  in  this  order 
of  things,  forces  of  weakness,  docility,  seduction, 
and  suavity,  which  are  as  much  realities  as  the 
forces  of  strength,  encroachment,  violence,  and 
rudeness.  This  everlasting  contest  which  the  law 
of  life  is  constantly  undergoing  upon  the  face  of 


SOCIAL   EQUILIBRIUM.  209 

the  globe,  man  carries  on  in  his  thoughts,  as  well 
as  his  actions.  Where  he  represents  merely 
brutal  force,  he  is  little  superior  to  the  animals : 
where  he  represents  intellectual  and  moral  force, 
he  has  a  right  to  believe  himself  the  highest 
expression  of  the  actually  existing  creation  ;  but 
this  on  condition  that  he  foUow,  with  constanc}^ 
that  tendency  which  is  continually  urging  the 
universe  towards  a  higher  destiny. 

Social  equilibrium,  then,  consists  in  furnishing 
all  with  the  means  of  developing  their  individual 
worth,  of  whatever  nature,  provided  it  be  worth 
and  not  inertia.  Ignorance  is  not  the  only  obsta- 
cle :  there  is  misery  too,  —  that  is,  the  want  or 
excess  of  labor ;  and  a  society  which  could  not 
find  the  means  of  equalizhig  the  expenditure  of 
strength  and  tlie  legitimate  acquisition  of  healthy 
enjoyments  is  a  ruined  society. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  rich  or  the  moderately 
wealthy  class  will  not  be  obliged  to  make  some 
great  sacrifice  in  founding  such  a  considerable 
establishment  as  is  now  in  preparation ;  for  this 
must  be  a  legal  establishment  adapted  to  tlu; 
intellectual  emancipation  of  those  classes  wanting 
both  in  money  and  instruction.  Gratuitous  ser- 
vices will  be   requested,  and    this   can   never  bo 


210  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

prevented  without  striking  a  blow  at  the  liberty 
of  transactions ;  but,  when  transactions  can  be 
effected  only  at  the  expense  of  great  collective 
struggles,  there  is  something  wrong  in  the  social 
and  industrial  organization.  What  I  have  been 
earnestly  desiring  is  taking  place.  A  thorough 
investigation  of  the  requirements  of  labor,  and 
the  resources  of  industry,  has  been  commenced. 
The  immediate  result  will  not  be  very  satisfac- 
tory. A  permanent  and  fundamental  institution 
is  needed ;  for  requirements  and  resources  are 
constantly  undergoing  modifications ;  and  when, 
after  the  lapse  of  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  it  will 
become  necessary  to  return  to  tlie  question  of 
actuality,  we  shall  be  startled  and  discouraged 
in  view  of  the  new  examination  to  be  made. 
This  is  postponed  as  long  as  possible,  to  avoid 
over-exciting  the  parties  interested.  The  dissat- 
isfied will  get  irritated,  the  satisfied  become  ob- 
stinate. The  great  study  of  social  equilibrium 
should  be  uninterrupted,  and  rest  only  on  rela- 
tive solutions.  This  is  what  the  true  friends  of 
the  people  ought  to  desire,  and  will  desire. 

When  this  great  tribunal  of  social  interests 
shall  perform  its  regular  functions,  and  its  mem- 
bers be  elected  by  patrons  and  workmen  under 


HUMAN    DECISIONS.  211 

conditions  of  approved  impartiality,  whoever  at- 
tempts to  govern  in  any  way,  through  intrigue 
or  violence,  will  be  worthy  of  condemnation. 
Thus  far,  human  decisions  have  produced  scenes 
at  variance  with  conscience  ;  as,  when  we  see 
ignorance  disarmed  before  wealth  combined  with 
knowledge  and  authority.  Ignorance,  not  know- 
ing its  rights,  resigns  or  exaggerates  them  ;  but, 
however  deplorable  a  use  it  makes  of  them,  we 
must  not  forget  its  entire  existence. 

Really  fraternal  institutions  would  prove  the 
future  salvation  of  the  people.  But  there  is  one 
essential  starting-point :  this  is  the  establishment 
which  I  have  before  mentioned,  —  the  establish- 
ment for  promoting  means  of  realization.  The 
time  will  come  when  every  one  will  gladly  con- 
triljute  liis  share  ;  but,  if  you  wish  to  produce  that 
holy  equality  of  the  people  which  is  possible,  this 
great  subscription  must  not  bear  the  character 
of  a  charity.  We  are  not  the  equal  of  that  man 
who  throws  us  the  offering  of  pity;  for  many  give 
it  with  disdain,  merely  to  avoid  the  sight  of  dis- 
tress. The  study  of  social  science,  which  is  not 
^iiercly  an  economic  capacity,  but  a  philosophy,  a 
religion  without  any  miracles  except  those  whicli 
man  can  peiforni,  must  fill  us  with  a  sense  of  our 


212  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

duties  ;  it  must  impress  upon  us  the  right  of  all 
to  liberty,  instruction,  and  comfort;  it  must  teach 
us  to  become  civilized  men,  capable  of  civilizing 
other  men.  We  can  raise  five  thousand  millions 
of  francs  to  restore  and  preserve  our  nationality. 
The  time  will  come  when  we  shall  be  able  and 
willing  to  make  a  similar  effort  to  preserve  our 
conscience,  and  restore  our  dignity.  Who  knows 
what  amount  could  be  raised  by  an  annual  contri- 
bution for  the  abolishment  of  intellectual  helot- 
ism? 

This  would  require  the  vote  of  a  sovereign, 
republican  assembly.  It  could  not  be  accom- 
phshed  by  the  will  of  a  prince  or  a  party,  without 
producing  a  change  in  its  character.  Private 
initiative  does  not  yet  jDOSsess  American  vitality, 
and  perhaps  never  will  in  France,  although  we 
must  hope  for  it,  and  strive  to  encourage  it.  By 
the  sincere  fusion  of  the  different  parties,  we  may 
hope  for  this  great  movement,  this  immense  and 
unprecedented  loan,  which,  perhaps,  will  be  called 
in  history,  "  revolution  for  an  ideal." 

NoHANT,  July  23,  1872. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


FATHER   HYACINTHE. 


Sept.  12,  1872. 

I  MAKE  no  attempt  to  unravel  the  compli- 
cated difficulties  of  the  present  time,  arising 
from  the  divergence,  unexpectedness,  or  apparent 
strangeness  of  the  multifarious  events  that  are 
taking  place.  Possibly  this  is  an  epoch  of 
general  decomposition  ;  but  most  certainly  it  is 
an  epoch  of  simultaneous,  partial  recomposition. 
What  is  destroyed  in  one  direction  is  recon- 
structed in  another.  Efforts  for  restoring  the 
past,  for  building  up  the  present,  and  erecting  the 
future,  are  all  active  at  the  same  time.  The  earth 
trembles,  edifices  crumble,  others  spring  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  unknown ;  and  every  person 
receives  his  own  impression.  Each  one  has  a 
right  to  his  own ;  but  it  is  the  duty  of  a  few  to 
nKiko  theirs  manifest. 

I   feci  that  tliis  duty  rests  upon  me  in  regard 

to  Ilyacinthe-Loyson.     Having  been  requested  by 

ai8 


214  JiMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

mutual  friends  to  express  my  sentiments  concern- 
ing him,  I  declined  seeing  him  or  maldng  his 
acquaintance.  I  had  my  doubts  in  regard  to  his 
sincerity;  at  least,  his  frankness.  There  is  a 
marked  shade  of  difference  between  these  two 
words :  one  may  be  ingenuous,  and  yet  lack 
courage.  It  seemed  to  me  that  such  was  the  case 
with  this  philosophic  priest,  who  rejected  the 
dogma  of  hell,  favored  the  marriage  of  priests, 
condemned  neither  Jews  nor  heretics,  and  yet 
called  himself  Catholic,  and  submitted  to  the 
Roman  Church. 

M.  Hyacinthe-Loyson  has  not  changed,  but  I 
have  altered  my  opinion.  He  denies  papal  infal- 
libihty,  contends  with  the  official  church,  and 
marries.  I  believe  him  both  sincere  (that  is, 
ingenuous)  and  frank  (that  is,  brave). 

I  am  not  laughing  at  his  ingenuousness,  I  assure 
you.  I  am  touched  by  his  courage,  and  I  admire 
it.  I  read  the  declaration  which  he  published  a 
few  days  ago,  in  the  "  Temps,"  and  which  was 
copied  by  all  the  newspapers.  It  apj^ears  to  me 
the  language  of  a  worthy  man,  and  a  man  of 
heart. 

It  constitutes  a  very  wholesome  and  very  fine 
page  in  the  religious  history  of  our  times.     The 


A  NEW  POINT.  215 

rasre  which  it  has  occasioned  does  not  affect  me. 
This  vain  roaring  of  an  angry  sea,  this  boiling 
and  frothing,  do  not  hinder  me  from  seeing  the 
new  island  rise  to  the  surface,  and  the  waves 
dash  around  it,  powerless  to  effect  its  submersion. 

It  is  now  but  a  small  tract  of  land,  a  narrow 
refuge,  difficult  of  access,  impossible  of  egress. 
This  is  an  entirely  new  point  of  doctrine,  as 
regards  the  position  taken  by  the  orthodoxy  of 
our  day.  A  little  church  is  founded,  which,  in  a 
century,  will  probably  receive  due  consideration. 
Who  knows  but  it  may  become  some  important 
halting-place,  where  Catholicism  will,  in  its  turn, 
take  refuge  in  its  struggle  against  death  ? 

For  its  hour  is  approaching  ;  and  the  pilgrim- 
ages, the  use  of  grottos  and  marvellous  waters, 
tlie  political  invasion  of  the  sanctuary,  —  tliese 
are  its  funeral-knell.  What  does  it  signify  that 
the  ignorant  or  fanatic  masses  saunter  along  in 
the  footsteps  of  the  agitators  ? 

When  a  religion  can  no  longer  satisfy  a  healthy 
soul,  its  fate  is  decided.  Its  existence  is  oidy  a 
question  of  time. 

But  this  religion,  wliich,  at  its  1)irlh,  was 
an  ideal,  a  relative  trnth,  ciinnol  ])crisli  williout 
emitting  some  still  pure  and  brilliunl  gUams ;  and, 


216  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  into  which  the  offi- 
cial Church  is  plunged,  the  declaration  of  M. 
Hyacinthe-Loyson  is  like  one  of  those  flashes  of 
light  which  are  emitted  from  lamps  in  which  the 
fuel  is  nearly  exhausted.  Catholicism  cannot  and 
ought  not  to  disappear  suddenly.  Its  agony  must 
have  its  day.  Though  hastened  by  the  demon- 
strations of  Lourdes  and  La  Salette,  its  end  will 
most  certainly  be  delayed  by  generous  attempts, 
and  truly  religious  exertions.  New  heresies  wiU 
appear,  and  numbers  of  priests  will  proclaim  their 
right  to  marriage.  A  pope  will  arise,  perhaps, 
who  will  not  suffer  himself  to  be  unscrupulously 
invested  with  infallibihty,  a  sort  of  divinity  at- 
tributed to  man.  This  pope  can  summon  a  new 
council,  a  genuine  council,  which,  in  view  of  the 
imminent  ruin  of  the  religious  edifice,  will  re- 
solve to  support  it  by  liberal  concessions.  If  this 
council  does  not  dare  to  lay  hands  on  the  doctrine, 
it  will  allow  the  priest  such  tolerant  interpreta- 
tions that  intolerance  will  gradually  disappear, 
and  the  sentence  of  eternal  damnation  will  be- 
come only  a  metaphor.  The  imagination  can, 
with  sense,  conceive  of  a  Christian  church  with- 
out miracles,  and  without  priests  debarred  from 
society. 


THE   GREAT   CRIMINAL.  217 

For  my  own  part,  this  is  just  what  I  should 
desire,  that  we  might  be  spared  future  dangers 
resulting  from  persecuted,  consequently  exasper- 
ated, beliefs.  To  the  odious  massacre  of  hostages 
we  are  indebted  for  the  disgrace  of  pilgrimages, 
and  the  horror  of  that  liberty  of  conscience  which, 
with  the  stupidity  of  the  middle  ages,  excludes 
certain  portion  of  the  people,  as  in  1793  and 
1815. 

The  marriage  of  ex-Father  Hyacinthe  is  a  great 
scandal  to  the  Church,  at  the  present  time  ;  and, 
with  its  usual  ability,  the  rehgious  press  is  giving 
him  all  the  notoriety  possible.  The  great  crimi- 
nal who  is  presenting  himself  before  public  opin- 
ion, with  the  resigned  assurance  of  an  honest 
man,  ought  not  to  be  too  much  provoked  at  all 
this  disturbance.  He  feels  a  conviction  which 
we  do  not  share.  He  thinks,  even  now,  that  he 
can  call  himself  a  priest  and  a  Catliolic.  The 
distinction  which  he  attempts  to  establisli  be- 
tween the  Roman  and  the  Latin  Cliurch  seems  to 
us  rather  arbitrary ;  and  we  discern  liere  a  little 
of  the  subtlety  of  the  priest.  In  our  iniiid,  lie  is 
.Imperfect  heretic,  and  we  congratulate  him;  for 
lieresies  fonn  the  grand  vitality  of  tlie  Christian 
ideal  :    nor  are   we   sctandali/.cd  at   this    subtlety, 


218  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  sole  remnant  of  ecclesiastical  clotli  which  has 
clung  to  the  side  of  the  future  father  of  a  family. 
It  is  a  logical  support  of  his  conviction,  a  genuine 
need  of  his  cause.  It  is  easy  to  tlu^ow  the  frock 
to  the  dogs  ;  and  consequently  this  eagerness  to 
throw  off  the  yoke  has  prevented  the  success  of 
previous  attempts  by  priests  in  favor  of  marriage. 
Here  is  one  who  is  not  willing  to  lose  his  indeli- 
ble reputation,  and  does  not  abjure  his  calling  by 
contracting  marriage.  "  It  is  well  for  a  priest  to 
be  married,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  will  be  mar- 
ried, and  I  will  remain  a  priest." 

So  be  it !  You  have  changed  3-our  condition  to 
that  of  a  Protestant  pastor  ;  but  not  admitting 
Protestantism,  the  error  of  Luther.,  which  is,  in 
your  opinion,  in  a  state  of  rupture  with  the  genuine 
traditions  and  necessary  unity  of  the  Churchy  you 
are,  at  present,  alone  in  your  opinion  ;  you  are 
founding  a  church  aside.  I  hope  that  it  will 
have  numerous  adherents  ;  for,  without  being 
either  Protestant  or  Catholic,  I  see,  as  every  one 
does,  the  fatal  and  disgraceful  consequences  of  the 
celibacy  of  priests.  Let  them  marry,  then,  and 
receive  no  more  confessions !  Will  Father  Hya- 
cinthe  continue  to  receive  confessions  ? 

That  is  a  question.     Is  the  secret  of  the  con- 


FAITHFUL  PENITENTS.  219 

fessional  compatible  yv'iih.  the  existence  of  conju- 
gal love  ?  If  I  were  a  Catholic,  I  should  not 
distress  myself  very  much  on  the  subject.  Dis- 
cretion is  easier  than  restraint ;  and,  moreover,  I 
should  say  to  my  children,  "  Never  have  secrets 
that  it  is  too  hard  to  reveal,  and  you  will  never 
stand  in  dread  of  the  gossip  of  the  rector's  wife." 

But  I  do  not  intend  to  joke  upon  this  subject. 
I  am  convinced  that  the  pious  ladies  who  will 
follow  M.  Hyacinthe-Loyson  in  his  new  career 
may  still  open  their  hearts  to  him  in  perfect 
safety ;  and  I  hope  that  he  may  receive  many 
faithful  penitents.  They  will  have  taken  a  step 
in  the  service  of  the  Church,  and  will  be  protest- 
ing against  one  of  the  principal  causes  of  its  dis- 
solution. 

This  declaration  of  Father  Hyacinthe's  is  really 
very  fine  and  very  touching.  Is  it  so  from  talent 
alone  ?  ask  some.  No !  talent  is  fine  only  when 
it  serves  to  express  some  fine  sentiment.  There 
are,  in  this  article,  outpourings  of  the  heart  and 
utterances  of  conscience  which  penetrate  to  the 
lieart  and  the  conscience.  It  presents  an  idea  of 
tpue  love,  a  respect  for  nature  in  its  divine  sense, 
a  cliaste  veneration  for  iiiiitriinony,  wliich  would 
rei)ress  a  smile  and  call  forth  tears.     It  is  really 


220  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

very  grand ;  and  this  strange  piece,  written  by  a 
priest,  will  perhaps  become  a  sort  of  new  gospel 
for  future  members  of  a  new  church.  A  married 
priest.  Father  Hyacinthe  —  do  not  let  us  deprive 
him  of  his  title  of  priest  and  monk  —  will  be  able 
to  marry  other  priests,  and  set  their  regenerated 
consciences  at  peace. 

I  would  not  submit  to  the  unpleasant  duty  of 
revealing  all  my  thoughts.  I  do  not  acknowledge 
any  mediator  between  God  and  myself.  I  beheve 
this  mediator  useless  when  he  is  not  harmful,  and 
harmful  when  he  is  not  destructive ;  but  as  man 
will,  for  years  to  come,  feel  the  need  of  a  priest, 
let  us  hope  that  the  latter  may  be  at  least  as  pure 
if  not  as  noble  as  Father  Hyacinthe. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

A  CUKIOUS  BOOK. 

Sept.  12,  1872. 
"HT   ES   Enchantements   cle  Madame  Prudence 

JLi  de  Saman  L'  Esbatx."  This  is  the  odd  title 
of  one  of  the  most  curious  books  that  I  have  ever 
read.  It  was  printed  at  Sceaux,  and  is  sold,  I 
believe,  under  the  galleries  of  the  Od<ion  ;  as  if 
the  author  did  not  care  to  seek  great  publicity  by 
any  special  announcement.  I  can  imagine  why ; 
but  I  have  only  to  judge  of  the  book,  and  not 
betray  the  pseudonyme. 

It  is  the  true  history  of  a  life ;  and  a  careful 
perusal  of  it  might  be  recommended  to  those 
investigating  minds,  who,  at  the  present  day,  arc 
writing  or  meditating  upon  the  influence  of 
woman  in  the  society  of  to-day  and  of  the  future. 

The  aim  of  the  author  is  clearly  defined,  and  ex- 
pifesst'd  in  a  f(3W  lines.  "  Only  distinguished  tal- 
ents are  worthy  of  occupying  the  attentioii  of  (lie 
j)ublic  ;    but,  feeling  that  woman's  fate  is  somc- 

221 


222  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

times  so  wretched,  I  thought  it  might  be  interest- 
ing to  see  one  woman  follow  the  dictates  of  her 
heart,  and  rank  love  and  independence  above 
every  thing  in  life.  I  write  for  those  who  are 
fond  of  the  emotional,  who  enjoy  simple  narra- 
tives, memoirs,  and,  perhaps  remotely,  the  moral 
and  physical  questions  connected  therewith."' 

After  this  brief  introduction,  she  enters  upon 
her  narration  ;  and  we  regret  that  she  has  given 
us  so  few  particulars  of  her  childhood.  A  person 
endowed  with  such  powerful  originality  must 
either  have  received  an  eccentric  education,  or 
been  systematically  left  to  her  own  free  will. 

She  merely  informs  us  that,  the  daughter  of  an 
indulgent,  rich,  and  intelligent  father,  she  was 
brought  up  "  in  luxury  and  pleasure."  Her 
father  lost  his  entire  fortune  ;  but,  active  and 
intelligent,  he  was  repairing  his  loss,  when  death 
ended  his  career.  His  wife  survived  him  but  a 
short  time.  The  orphan  did  not  give  herself  the 
least  anxiety,  in  a  material  point  of  view,  respect- 
ing the  fate  that  was  in  store  for  her. 

I  do  not  believe  that  she  was  ever  in  actual 
distress.  She  probably  never  suffered  from  that 
slavery,  that  scourge,  of  life  ;  whether  by  assidu- 
ous toil  she  •  succeeded  in  charming  it  away,  or 


EARLY  EMOTIONS.  223 

whether,  raised  by  a  feeling  of  real  stoicism  above 
privations,  she  did  not  feel  its  power. 

"  From  the  time  that  I  was  eight  or  ten  years 
of  age,  I  was  devout.  I  read  a  Bible  that  I  found 
at  home,  and  every  morning  I  kept  my  sister  to 
pray  with  me.  My  father  discovered  us  several 
times  on  our  knees.  When  I  was  twelve  or  thir- 
teen years  of  age,  he  requested  my  mother  to  let 
me  read  the  correspondence  between  Voltaire  and 
the  King  of  Prussia.  I  lost  faith  in  the  Biljle, 
but  not  my  natural  feeling  towards  God,  which 
has  endured,  and  been  my  greatest  support  in  life. 
I  have  never  ceased  praying  to  God,  and  adoring 
him  ;  but,  from  the  age  of  twelve  to  fourteen,  a 
great  anxiety,  a  certain  fear,  disturbed  the  inno- 
cent studies  in  which  I  would  willingly  have 
passed  my  existence  ;  for  we  encounter  Minerva 
at  the  two  extremities  of  life." 

It  does  not  appear,  however,  that  these  early 
emotions  affected  the  development  of  her  intel- 
lect; for  she  adds  soon  after,  "  I  found  much 
enjoyment  then  in  literature,  and  in  the  history 
of  England  ;  and  I  began  to  study  Latin." 
^  This  taste  for  history  soon  turned  into  a  practi- 
cal j)hilosophy. 

"  Incited    by    the   study   of  Roman    history,   I 


224  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

sought  to  preserve,  amid  the  distresses  of  my 
country  (invasion)  and  my  family,  that  dignity 
of  mind  enjoined  by  the  ancients  in  reverse  as  in 
prosperity." 

She  does  not  appear  to  have  mourned  very 
deeply  the  loss  of  her  parents.  Although  she 
mentions  them  with  praise,  I  doubt  if  she  were 
brought  up  with  tenderness.  Her  first  aifection 
was  for  a  woman  who  had  always  been  like  a 
mother  to  her,  for  whom  she  had  a  feeling  of 
veneration.  She  lived  in  the  country  with  this 
superior  woman. 

"  The  Abbey  du  Vallon  was  situated  in  the 
woods,  six  or  seven  leagues  from  Paris ;  but  these 
woods  seemed  a  hundred  leagues  from  the  city. 
The  country  aromid  displayed  that  style  of 
beauty  common  to  Gaul,  which  is  renowned  for 
its  shade,  its  Druidical  forests,  its  limpid  streams, 
the  whistling  of  the  wind,  and  the  music  of  the 
storm ;  nature  ^without  brilliancy,  without  heat, 
without  sun,  but  dreamy,  tempestuous,  inspiring. 

"  I  was  born  here,  in  reality,  if  to  be  born  is 
to  feel  and  love." 

Here  she  makes  the  acquaintance  of  a  man 
whose  ideal  beautj^  and  superior  mind  she  de- 
scribes  with   complacence,    evincing   alternations 


HEALED    WOUNDS.  225 

of  ardent  passion  and  stoical  discretion,  which 
astonish  us  to  a  certain  degree.  "We  wonder  how 
so  much  reason  can  be  combined  with  such  enthu- 
siasm, and  why  this  powerful  reason  could  not 
overcome  her  desire  for  life  at  any  cost.  Is  not 
a  manly  education  a  greater  source  of  protection 
for  the  young  girl  than  for  the  young  man  ? 

No ;  but  in  both  cases  it  renders  a  fall  more 
harmless,  and  quickly  heals  the  wounds.  It 
healed  INIadame  de  Saman's  wounds  so  suddenly, 
that  we  are  led  to  doubt  if  her  passion  could 
have  been  so  intense.  No  one  would  be  aston- 
ished, that,  under  the  influence  of  her  struggling 
emotions,  she  should  write  or  read  romances  with 
increased  ardor  and  facility.  But  it  was  not  left 
to  romances  alone,  to  draw  her 'from  her  secret 
anguish :  it  was  still  more  the  work  of  history 
and  philosophy,  of  a  variety  and  succession  of 
serious  studies,  of  useful  and  remarkable  produc- 
tions, to  which  she  devoted  herself  with  eager 
satisfaction,  just  after  she  had  passed  the  most 
important  crisis.  She  succeeded  in  lieroically 
abandoning  love  for  austere  Pallas,  as  they  ex- 
pi'tssed  it  in  those  days.     Did  she  love  the  less? 

That  she  describes  affection  so  charmingly,  ;nid 
with  such    courageous  disregard  of  self,  l)ecause 


226  I3IPRESSI0NS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

her  own  love  was  deep,  is  not  to  be  doubted  ;  nor 
can  it  be  questioned  that  her  mind  was  powerful, 
her  character  remarkably  tempered.  It  is  of  minor 
importance  to  me,  that  her  friends  and  lovers 
may  have  suffered  from  unrequited  affection  or 
wounded  self-love  :  I  am  forced  to  admire  "that 
power  in  which  I  behold  a  curious  verification  of 
the  transformation  of  intellectual  sex  by  means 
of  a  masculinely  intellectual  culture. 

Yet  the  male  sex  persist  in  their  opinion,  not- 
withstanding such  particular  instances  as  Alexan- 
dre Dumas  has  so  well  described  in  that  pamplilet  ^ 
of  his,  which  has  just  created  such  a  sensation.  I 
do  not  admit  his  conclusions,  consequently  do 
not  comprehend  his  aim  ;  but  I  highly  appreciate 
the  more  important  features  of  the  book,  the  criti- 
cism and  descriptions.  Madame  de  Saman's  book 
is,  as  it  were,  a  flagrant  proof  of  the  justice  of 
these  statements.  She  faithfully  portrays  and 
frankly  acknowledges  that  longing  for  power 
which  is  characteristic  of  woman.  We  are  im- 
pressed, too,  with  that  sense  of  the  possession  of 
the  me,  which  gives  her  strength  in  weakness,  and 
victory  in  defeat.  She  approaches  love  with  une- 
qualled intrepidity.     She  does  not  brave  danger: 

-'  I  L'  Homme-Femme. 


A   FLAGRANT  PROOF.  227 

she  courts  it.  She  submits  to  the  downfall  which, 
in  her  own  eyes,  is  a  triumph ;  for  she  desires  to 
conquer  the  scruples  of  an  austere  love,  a  proud 
spiritualism,  inimical  to  passions.  She  struggles 
to  draw  to  her  own  manner  of  loving,  which  she 
esteems  the  only  good  and  true  method,  that  man 
whose  happiness  she  seeks  to  promote  by  the  full 
development  of  his  heroism.  The  man  struggles 
with  his  feelings,  fearing  to  end  his  career  of  single 
blessedness.  His  individuality  is  very  strong, 
and  the  struggle  powerful.  Would  the  woman 
have  triumphed  if  she  had  been  truly  a  woman  ? 
IMadame  de  Saman  falls  voluntarily,  and  then  she 
flees ;  but  under  what  conditions  ?  She  is  about 
to  become  a  mother.  Does  she  take  this  step  from 
a  feeling  of  vengeance  ?  Does  she  wish  to  punish 
the  man,  still  deeply  in  love  with  lier,  who  does 
not  offer  her  full  protection  ?  No.  This  perfectly 
sincere  woman  has  not  a  feeling  of  spite  or  blame 
for  him  whom  she  leaves.  She  merely  says,  "  He 
was  ambitious,  and  I  was  the  sufTei-er ;  but  I 
understood  it,  being  ambitious  myself." 

She  tried  to  make  him  understand  the  ideal  of 
a  frtithful  union  of  mutual  devotion  ;  l)ut  she  met 
with  the  obstacle  of  a  character  perhaps  inferior 
to  her  own,  certainly   quite   different.     She   be- 


228  TMPEESSrONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

comes  discouraged,  and  flees.  A  part  of  her  time 
she  spends  in  Italy,  but  the  greater  portion  in 
some  solitary  country  place,  where  she  divides 
her  time  between  her  child,  the  study  of  books, 
and  the  contemplation  of  nature.  An  amazing 
calm  succeeds  the  most  violent  emotions.  Her 
labors  are  greatly  assisted  by  memory,  perse- 
verance, and  ease  of  comprehension ;  and  these 
varied  forms  of  employment  comprise  what  she 
styles  her  enchantments.  You  would  infer  from 
the  title  that  Armide  is  going  to  relate  the  magic 
incantations  by  means  of  which  she  attracts  and 
retains  her  cavaliers ;  but  it  is  quite  the  reverse : 
it  is  she  who  yields  to  enchantments  in  the  form 
of  love  or  friendship,  and  by  study  creates  them 
for  herself,  to  be  enjoyed  in  retirement. 

I  find  nowhere  in  her  narration  an  expression 
of  maternal  affection ;  but,  if  she  has  not  spoken 
of  it,  she  has  felt  it.  She  brought  up  her  children 
without  concealing  any  thing  from  them  or  from 
other  people.  She  jprobably  instructed  them  in 
Greek,  Latin,  history,  literature,  philosophy,  — 
every  thing  with  which  she  was  thoroughly 
acquainted ;  and  she  made  men  of  them.  It  is 
evident  that,  in  her  peculiar  situation,  the  silence 
of  her  pen  was  owing  to  a  haughty  and  prudent 


A   ROMAN  MATRON.  229 

reserve.  She  is  like  a  Roman  matron,  who,  wish- 
ing to  bring  up  strong  men,  conceals  from  them 
the  weakness  of  her  heart,  and  does  not  even 
speak  of  them  with  tenderness,  for  fear  of  yield- 
ing to  her  emotions. 

Thus  she  endures  all  her  trials  alone.  Her 
conscience  is  very  powerful,  and  she  exhibits  a 
classical  fondness  for  ancient  virtue  and  religious 
faith,  yet  manifests  no  regret  nor  femorse  for  the 
past :  she  regards  it  as  an  inevitable  fatality,  feel- 
ing that  she  ought  to  submit  to  its  trials,  and 
appreciate  its  comforts. 

ShQ  guards  against  the  sacrifice  of  dignity, 
reason,  justice,  liberty,  and  life,  when  she  sees 
them  threatened.  She  writes  to  her  friend  at  a 
time  before  she  was  in  love,  "  You  say  that,  in 
consideration  of  genius,  certain  failings  are  over- 
looked, but  not  justified.  What  if  the  sensibility 
which  leads  to  these  failings  is  also  the  source 
of  the  genius?  Shall  it  overcome  itself?  What 
would  have  become  of  the  talent  of  Madame  do 
Stai'l,  de  Sapho,  and  many  others,  if  they  had 
lived  a  life  of  struggles?  Was  not  their  expcri- 
ente  worth  more  than  the  liinnijih  gained  from 
such  a  conflict?  I  make  no  assertion.  I  wish  (o 
investigate,  to  fix  niy  confused  ideas;    but   does 


230  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

there  exist  a  woman,  who,  beholding  the  dawn  of 
a  passionate  feeling,  would  say,  '  I  will  stifle  my 
rising  emotion  '  ?  " 

These  reflections,  added  to  others,  justify  the 
definition  which  she  gives  of  herself  at  the  com- 
mencement :  "  A  person  who  holds  love  and  inde- 
pendence above  every  thing."  Surely  this  is  a 
great  problem  to  solve ;  for  therein  lies  the  solu- 
tion of  a  fearful  antithesis.  Society  is  not  ar- 
ranged according  to  this  view.  On  the  contrary, 
by  prescribing  fidelity  in  love,  it  imposes  the  sac- 
rifice of  liberty.  My  ideal  would  be  a  condition 
in  which  this  sacrifice  would  be,  to  both  sexes, 
as  welcome  as  it  was  meritorious.  Madame  de 
Saman  ought  not  to  have  asserted  the  contrary ; 
but,  yielding  to  the  feelings  of  youth,  she  sought 
to  overcome  the  difiiculty  without  giving  sufficient 
attention  to  surrounding  circumstances.  Her 
friend  mildly  remonstrated  against  this  terrible 
resolution,  fearing  for  her  an  old  age  imbittered 
by  delusion.  And  here  is  the  book  which  replies 
to  every  thing,  and  quietly  announces  the  tri- 
umph. Her  old  age  is  peaceful,  happy,  and 
dignified.  After  a  series  of  pleasures,  she  tastes 
the  delights  of  a  quiet  and  studious  life,  and  the 
satisfaction  of  a  mind  in  perfect  harmony  with 
itself. 


THE  SAME  DRAMA.  231 

The  account  of  her  pleasures  is,  naturally,  very- 
interesting  ;  yet  it  is  always  the  same  drama,  with 
a  slight  change  of  characters,  the  acts  being  very 
singularly  connected.  Although  new  ties  are 
created,  the  woman  never  forsakes  the  old  ones. 
She  does  not  wish  to  extinguish  the  fires  she  has 
once  lighted;  but,  with  a  pious  and  charming 
coquetry,  preserves  them  with  as  much  respect  as 
she  would  altar-fires.  Do  not  be  shocked.  She 
clings  to  the  man  whose  love  she  shares,  confiding 
this  new  affection  to  those  who  ask  for  a  renewal 
of  the  past,  and  avoiding  the  perils  of  an  inter- 
view by  confessing,  with  emotion,  how  much 
pleasure  she  has  derived  from  these  interviews 
in  former  times.  She  holds  it  as  a  rule,  that  to 
love  once  is  to  love  always,  and  that  those  whom 
she  has  abandoned,  either  from  becoming  weary 
of  their  society,  or  from  fear  of  restraint,  are  still 
wortliy  of  her  everlasting  affection ;  and  she  char- 
acterizes the  delicate  nature  of  these  friendships 
by  the  name  of  love.  Slic  follows  these  eminent 
men  in  their  labors,  becomes  interested  in  thiir 
success  in  literature,  in  politics,  or  in  every-day 
li^e,  and  gains  their  utmost  confidence  by  a  like 
reciprocation.  She  retains  their  esteem,  and 
occasionally  their  love,  although  she  lays  no  claim 


232  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

to  the  latter.  Here  is  displayed  a  facility  of 
relationships,  whicli  recalls  the  philosophical  love 
of  the  last  century,  deprived  of  its  worst  feature, 
libertinism.  This  insight  into  the  private  life  of 
the  great  men  in  the  early  part  of  our  century  is 
very  piquant,  curious,  and  instructive.  It  is,  as  it 
were,  the  bubbhng  of  romance  before  its  system- 
ization  in  1830 :  it  is  admiration  for  Napoleon  I., 
Chateaubriand,  Madame  de  Stael. 

Madame  de  Saman  never  mentions  Corinne ; 
but  it  is  this  ideal  that  leads  her  to  Italy,  and  is 
the  cause  of  her  long-continued  partiality  for  a 
certain  fascinating  Oswald,  whom  she  constantly 
quits  with  delight,  yet  receives  again  with  ecstasy. 
Let  me  remark,  by  the  way,  that  never  was  a 
man  described  as  more  lovable  and  charming,  and 
that  a  woman-fascinator  has  accomplished  his 
object  when  he  succeeds  in  obtaining,  with  all 
his  perfections  and  imperfections,  a  portrait  from 
such  a  masterly  hand. 

This  romantic  fermentation  of  which  I  am 
speaking  forms  a  phase  of  literary  history  ex- 
tremely interesting  as  a  study.  Madame  de 
Saman  is  a  specimen  of  it,  and  throws  consid- 
erable light  on  the  subject.  People  were  roman- 
tic without  saying  so,  without  being  aware  of  it, 


AMPUTATION   OF  FACULTIES.  233 

and  yet  they  were  classical  in  many  respects. 
Victor  Hugo  and  his  school  brought  about  a 
revolution,  which  I  consider  a  misfortune.  We 
owe  to  him,  it  is  true,  the  brilliancy  of  a  splendid 
Pleiades,  surrounding  an  immortal  glory ;  and  I 
forgive  the  outburst  of  bad  taste,  ridiculous  imi- 
tation, and  actual  insanity,  which  have  enlarged 
the  circle  of  the  school,  although  this  is  fatal 
to  every  literary  epoch.  What  I  deplore  is  the 
fragmentary  division  of  labor,  the  sectarianism, 
the  narrow  prejudice,  the  systematic  contempt  of 
all  previous  conquests.  It  is  this  sort  of  ampu- 
tation of  our  own  faculties  which  is  always  the 
result  of  exclusiveness  in  matters  of  taste,  and 
which  from  the  domain  of  art  extends  to  that 
of  philosophy,  politics,  even  science,  ending  in 
contraction  of  the  mind,  narrowness  of  apprecia- 
tion, the  supremacy  of  speciality. 

Madame  de  Saman  has  kept  the  seal  of  her 
period  unbroken.  She  admires  Rend,  but  not  to 
the  exclusion  of  Ilacine,  CornciUe,  and  other 
great  writers  of  the  age.  Although  deeply  in- 
terested in  passing  events,  she  docs  not  neglect 
antiquity,  but  seeks  to  ])ring  its  grand  models 
to  life  again  in  liui'  own  mind.  She  regards 
Mignet    and   Plutarch,   M.    Thiers   and    Tacilus, 


234  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

with  equal  solicitude.  She  is  unwilling  to  admit 
a  democratic  future,  being  quite  in-  love  with  the 
past ;  and,  without  denjdng  that  genius  might 
spring  from  the  lower  ranks,  sees  civilization  only 
in  aristocratic  institutions.  Probably  she  could 
not  reach  Victor  Hugo's  jDrophetic  path ;  but  she 
might  accommodate  herself  to  a  republic  in  which 
M.  Thiers  would  be  upheld  by  Bcranger,  Cha- 
teaubriand, Napoleon  I.,  Sainte-Beuve,  the  Medi- 
cis,  Lamennais,  Libri,  Pericles,  Lord  Byron, 
Aspasia,  and  Joan  of  Arc.  It  remains  to  be 
seen  whether  such  a  combination  would  be  pos- 
sible in  our  day. 

But  the  book  in  question  is  not  one  in  which 
politics  are  of  any  real  importance.  The  main 
object  of  the  author  is  to  compare  the  events  of 
the  past,  and,  above  all,  the  men  of  ancient  times, 
with  the  events  and  the  men  of  the  present. 
This  was  the  revolutionary  method,  to  which 
Madame  de  Saman  still  chngs.  In  our  times, 
this  amounts  to  originality,  so  obsolete  has  that 
method  become.  However,  we  like  to  see  it 
revived,  with  its  attendant  consequences,  in  tlie 
mind  and  the  conduct  of  so  remarkable  a  person. 
How  many  dangers  she  has  encountered,  how 
many  delusions  overcome,  what  agitation,  mental 


A   GRAND  PRAYER.  235 

contradictions,  and  anguish  surmounted,  before 
arriving  at  the  desired  port  I  But  she  reached 
it  at  last :  her  method  did  her  good  service.  She 
commences  and  finishes  the  first  part  of  her 
narration  by  prayers ;  and  these  prayers  are 
beautiful,  grand,  humane.  Among  them  is  the 
following  :  — 

"  My  God",  this  is  our  favorite  season.  The 
winds  of  autumn  have  commenced  to  blow,  and  a 
sweet  and  holy  sadness  steals  over  Nature.  The 
heart  of  man,  fi-ee  from  the  need  of  terrestrial 
affections,  turns  for  delight  to  itself,  to  the  beau- 
ties of  the  universe,  —  their  grandeur  and  melan- 
choly. It  turns  to  thee,  O  God  !  It  draws  near 
thee  from  the  depths  of  its  exile,  from  the  midst 
of  emotions  which  lead  us  to  thee,  —  the  holy 
and  passionate  feelings  of  autumn,  the  overcast 
tliough  beloved  sky,  the  gentle  rain  more  pre- 
cious than  the  morning  dew,  the  decline  of  day  as 
solemn  as  the  evening  of  life,  stored  with  remin- 
iscences, calmness,  and  hope.  But  past  emotions, 
passions  as  flectiug  as  tliese  melancholy  clouds  ; 
our  tears,  bitter  and  sweet;  our  elated  youth, — 
will  these  delights  of  the  soul,  like  matter  which 
though  transformed  remains  indestructible,  ever 
be  restored  to  us?     Wilt  thou  give  us  back  those 


236  /3IPBESSI0NS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

sacred  days  which  were  the  light  of  our  exist- 
ence, and  which  alone  would  be  worth  the  pain 
of  living  our  lives  over  again  ?  " 

We  see  this  soul  which  love  has  filled,  but  not 
broken,  aspiring  after  love  in  a  future  existence. 
It  has  suffered  much,  but  has  loved  much ;  and  in 
the  remembrance  of  this  it  rejoices  with  renewed 
strength.  All  these  original  and  charming  prayers 
ought  to  be  read.  There  is  one  in  which  she  asks 
God  to  bless  her  saints  of  the  West ;  "  not  only 
St.  Thomas,  Pascal,"  but  also  the  philosoi)hers 
of  the  last  century,  who  "placed  God  at  the 
pinnacle  of  all  faiths.  Freed  from  ancient  and 
prejudiced  forms,  through  these  adorers  of  Thy 
name,  we  have  been  enabled  to  re-enter  thy 
temples,  to  seek  thee  once  more,  and  to  ac- 
knowledge with  rapture  that  thy  justice  extends 
equally  to  all  mankind.  Priests  of  thine,  they 
were  stimulated  to  restore  the  homage  due  to 
thee  by  the  sorrows  of  their  fellow-men.  True 
caliphs  of  God,  through  them  will  thy  name  be 
exalted.  Bless  them  for  having  ^destroyed  forever 
hypocrisy  and  suffering.  Let  us  glorify  these 
new  saints,  interpreters  of  divine  wisdom,  con- 
querors of  fanaticism  and  worldly  glory." 

The  whole  of  this  book  is  curious.     Here  is  a 


ANGEL,    OR  DEMON.  237 

very  pious  person,  feeKng  the  need  of  worship, 
and  frequenting  the  church :  — 

"  The  profound  silence  of  thy  temple,  the  dim 
light,  the  idea  of  divinity,  overcome  us ;  and  we 
bend  the  knee  to  thee,  O  God !  Thou  alone 
canst  arouse  our  better  feehngs.  If,  in  the  world 
in  which  we  live,  we  are  too  credulous  or  too 
generous,  we  very  soon  receive  our  punishment. 
Our  fondness  is  our  destruction  ;  our  enthusiasm 
leads  to  misfortune,  our  magnanimity  makes  us 
victims.  We  have  loved  too  much,  we  have 
suffered  too  much,  on  account  of  all  these  quali- 
ties ;  but  in  thy  house,  my  God,  we  can  never  be 
too  pure,  never  too  generous,  never  too  noble, 
never  too  sensitive.  Here  our  energy  can  soar 
aloft ;  but,  whatever  height  we  attain,  we  are 
still  far  from  thee.  What  strength  and  gran- 
deur in  ourselves  are  not  effaced  by  an  idea  of 
the  strength  and  grandeur  that  lies  in  thy  infinite 
nature  ?  How  sweet,  how  holy,  thus  to  give  our- 
selves up  to  thee,  and  to  tlie  dreams  of  beauty 
which  thou  hast  awakened  in  our  imagina- 
tions !  " 

^Vould  not  one  suppose  that  he  was  reading  a 
perfectly  orthodox  prayer,  and  should  not  the 
cui'atc  of  this  village  be  very  proud  to  behold  a 


238  IMPRESSIONS  AI^D  REMINISCENCES. 

lady  of  such  rare  merit  on  her  knees  in  his  church 
in  profound  meditation  ?  He  lends  an  ear,  is 
moved,  admires,  and  with  reason.  He  is  edified 
and  affected  as  he  has  never  been  before.  Per- 
haps he  has  never  before,  when  preaching  from 
the  pulpit  to  the  neighboring  lords,  experienced 
such  lofty  feehngs,  such  noble  motives  for  adoring 
the  God  whom  he  serves.  But  what  is  it  ?  Do 
his  ears  deceive  him  ?  Is  it  an  angel,  or  a  demon, 
who  is  speaking  ?  "  O  God  !  far  from  confining 
this  power  of  adoration  and  exaltation  to  a  single 
faith,  thou  hast  granted  it  to  the  North  as  well  as 
the  South ;  and  Asia  and  even  the  Indies  have  felt 
it,  as  well  as  the  Christians.  Thus  thy  divine 
spirit  clothes  itself  in  the  necessary  forms,  and 
through  these  forms  asserts  its  immortality." 

The  good  priest  hides  his  face,  and  flees  in 
trepidation. 

But  spiritualism  without  any  fixed  belief  loves 
that  grandeur  of  soul  which  has  respect  for  all 
earnest  believers.  We  may  deny  God,  and  so 
place  ourselves  beyond  this  notion.  The  moment 
that  we  earnestly  seek  after  the  truth,  we  are 
exercising  a  human  and  a  divine  right ;  for  if  God 
has  implanted  within  us  the  spirit  of  investiga- 
tion, it  is  that  we  may  make  use  of  it ;  but  we 


ROSES  AND  OAK-LEAVES.  239 

must  acknowledge  that  the  affirmation  of  divinity 
is  just  as  sacred  a  right.  I  am  on  the  side  of 
those  who  believe  in  God,  yet  neither  hate  nor 
fear  those  who  reject  him.  I  have  much  sym- 
pathy for  that  fervent  soul  who  is  not  exclusively 
Christian,  yet  enters  quietly  the  temple  of  his  age 
and  his  country,  at  the  same  time  holding  to  his 
individuality,  his  sentiments,  and  his  ideas. 

As  to  the  great  battle  of  life  so  bravely  fought 
by  her,  does  it  shock  reason  or  that  individual 
right  which  permits  the  sacrifice  of  ourselves  to  a 
l)elief  firmly  and  deliberately  formed  ?  Assuredly 
not.  Does  it  shock  the  moral  sense  ?  In  consid- 
eration of  her  particular  situation,  and  of  that 
depth  of  grand  loyalty  and  perfect  tolerance  which 
characterizes  Madame  de  Saman,  no  one  is  justi- 
fied in  throwing  the  first  stone.  On  my  own 
beluilf,  while  making  certain  reservations  to  my- 
self, I  tluow  her  a  crown  of  roses  and  oak-leaves. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

•  THE  FOEEST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

THE  following  is  a  letter  that  I  have  re- 
ceived :  — 

"  The  petition  of  the  artists  had  obtained  a 
most  favorable  reception  with  the  president  of 
the  republic :  notwithstanding,  an  auction-sale  of 
the  greater  portion  of  the  lots  took  place  on  the 
day  appointed. 

"  For  the  future  prevention  of  such  extensive 
mutilation,  the  subscribers  of  the  petition  have 
formed  themselves  into  a  company  for  the  artistic 
protection  of  the  forest  of  Fontainehleau ;  and, 
that  their  object  may  be  perfectly  apparent,  have 
unanimously  voted  the  following  resolution  :  — 

" '  Resolved,  That  the  forest  of  Fontainehleau 
ouo-ht  to  be  classed  with  those  national  and  his- 
torical  monuments  which  it  is  indispensable  to 
preserve  for  the  admiration  of  artists  and  tourists, 
and  that  its  actual  division  into  an  artistic  and  a 
non-artistic  portion  ought  to  be  permitted  only 
under  the  strictest  limitations.'  " 

240 


A  NATURAL  MONUMENT.  241 

I  am  not  aware  of  what  occurred  iu  regard  to 
the  forest  of  Fontainebleau ;  but  that  is  of  little 
consequence.  It  is  not  for  me  to  criticise  what 
I  do  not  understand:  yet  I  cannot  but  approve 
of  every  effort  made  for  the  preservation  of  this 
natural  monument,  very  properly  classed,  by  the 
petitioners,  among  the  national  monuments.  To 
divide  or  to  sell  it  would  be  to  destroy  it,  and  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  declare  that  a  sacrilege.  Here 
would  be  another  disgrace  to  add  to  the  confla- 
grations of  Paris. 

This  is  a  sorrowful  epoch  indeed,  when  on  one 
side  riot  demolishes  the  archives  of  civiHzatiou, 
and  on  the  other  the  State,  which  represents 
order  and  preservation,  destroj-s,  or  threatens  to 
destroy,  the  great  works  of  Time  and  Nature. 
Whether  they  be  converted  into  ruins  or  money, 
it  is  not  the  less  destruction ;  and  I  am  not  sure 
if,  of  these  two  vandalisms,  that  which  is  com- 
mitted in  cold  Ijlood,  legally,  and  after  delibera- 
tion, is  not  the  more  senseless  and  disgraceful. 

The  petitioners  who  request  me  to  unite  my 
efforts  to  theirs,  and  to  whom  I  hereby  give  pub- 
li(j(  adherence,  very  justly  plead  the  needs  of  the 
artist,  and  the  gratification  of  the  tourist.  But 
tlicre    is  something    more   to  be   considered  ;    for 


242  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

public  opinion  is  composed  of  a  mediocrity  utterly 
indifferent  to  the  small  fraction  of  ordinary  lovers 
of  nature.  I  tliink  that  we  may  go  still  farther, 
and  appeal  to  the  learned  to  demonstrate  that 
these  venerable  forests  are  an  essential  element 
of  our  physical  equilibrium ;  that  they  contain, 
within  their  sanctuaries,  principles  of  life  which 
cannot  be  neutralized  with  impunity ;  and  that  all 
the  inhabitants  of  France  are  directly  interested 
in  not  suffering  the  demolition  of  these  vast 
shades,  reservoirs  of  moisture  essential  to  the  air 
which  they  breathe,  and  the  soil  which  they  cul- 
tivate. 

One  of  my  illustrious  friends,  a  poet  of  the 
highest  order,  whom  we  have  recently  lost,  — 
Theophile  Gautier,  —  had  paradoxes  to  which  he 
did  not  become  a  dupe.  He  said  to  us,  one  day, 
that  plants  stood  in  the  relation  to  us  of  suckers^ 
absorbing  our  respirable  air ;  and  that  his  hygienic 
ideal  was  to  live  in  a  garden  composed  of  avenues 
and  borders  of  bitumen,  with  good  seats  of  cap- 
padine,  and  nargiles  always  lighted  ;  the  whole 
to  resemble  flower-beds  and  groups  of  trees. 

Some  one  remarked,  that,  if  plants  did  absorb  a 
portion  of  our  aerial  nourishment,  they  gave  us  a 
hundred-fold  compensation  in  the  elements  of  mo- 


THE  FIREPLACES   OF  LIFE.  243 

lecular  nutrition,  a  deprivation  of  which  would 
prove  mortal.  He  knew  this  perfectly  well,  for 
he  knew  a  good  deal ;  and  he  could  maintain  an 
argument  against  himself,  which  no  one  could 
have  pleaded  better. 

Tlie  large  vegetables  are  the  fireplaces  of  life, 
which  spread  their  benefits  far  and  wide ;  and,  if 
it  is  dangerous  or  hurtful  to  live  always  directly 
under  their  shade,  it  has  been  well  authenticated 
that  the  suppression  of  their  emanations  would 
produce  a  fatal  change  in  the  atmospheric  condi- 
tions of  human  hfe>  It  would  be  suppressing 
those  great  fans  which  keep  the  air  fresh,  and 
divide  the  electricity  above  our  heads ;  it  would 
be  impoverisliing  the  soil,  which  is  endowed  with 
a  circulation,  so  to  speak,  sub-cutaneous. 

Cultivation  scratches,  digs,  and  keeps  healthy 
the  delicate  crust ;  but  there  are  certain  rocky  or 
woody  parts  that  escape  this  constant  Icvellmg, 
and  so  retain  the  moisture  which  goes  to  fertilize 
the  subsoil  for  great  distances.  There  is  appar- 
ently very  little  water  in  the  gravel  and  rocks  of 
Fontainebleaii ;  but  the  subsoil,  which  has  kept 
Ih^  trees  alive  for  so  long  a  time,  must  be  ex- 
tremely ricli  :  and  this  richness  must  be  derived 
from   afar.     Destroy   the   trees,   which   by   their 


244  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

shade  supply  that  freshness  to  the  soil  that  is 
consumed  by  their  roots,  and  you  are  destroying 
the  harmony  necessary,  indispensable,  to  the 
region  in  which  you  live. 

Do  not  let  us  undervalue  the  importance  of  this 
question.  Everybody  is  not  capable  of  making  a 
study  of  the  oaks  and  sandstone  of  Fontaine- 
bleau ;  every  one  has  not  a  taste  for  it :  but  all 
men  have  a  right  to  the  beauty  of  these  things, 
and  there  are  more  people  capable  of  enjoying  it 
than  artists  interested  in  portraying  it.  Each 
person  has  a  certain  amount  of  intelligence  and 
poetr}' ;  and  therefore  an  extensive  education  is 
not  necessary  for  its  special  development.  Every 
one  has  a  right  to  the  beauty  and  poetry  of  our 
forests,  and  of  this  one  in  particular,  which  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world.  To 
destroy  it  would  be,  in  a  moral  sense,  a  spohation, 
an  actually  savage  attempt  at  that  right  of  intel- 
lectual propriety  which  constitutes  him  who  owns 
nothing  but  the  sight  of  beautiful  things  the 
equal,  sometimes  the  superior,  of  him  who  pos- 
sesses them. 

The  rage  for  individual  j)Ossession  ought  to 
be  confined  within  certain  limits  prescribed  by 
nature.     Shall  we  go  so  far  as  to  pretend  that  the 


ETERNAL   TEMPLES.  245 

atmosphere  ought  to  be  divided,  and  sold  to  those 
who  have  the  means  of  purchasing  ?  If  such  a 
thing  were  possible,  would  we  henceforth  see  each 
proprietor  sweeping  his  corner  of  the  heavens, 
and  piling  up  the  clouds  on  his  neighbor's  por- 
tion ;  or,  according  to  his  taste,  gathering  them 
in  for  himself,  and  asking  for  a  law  that  should 
forbid  any  man  without  money  from  beholding 
the  golden  sunset,  or  the  fantastic  splendor  of  the 
clouds  driven  by  a  storm  ?  I  hope  that  this 
happy  time  will  never  come ;  l)at  I  feel  that 
the  destruction  of  beautiful  forests  is  a  proposi- 
tion not  less  monstrous,  and  that  we  have  no 
more  right  in  an  intellectual  than  in  a  hygienic 
sense,  to  remove  large  trees  from  a  public  domain. 
They  are  as  sacred  as  the  fertihzing  clouds  with 
whicli  they  hold  incessant  communication ;  they 
ought  to  Ije  protected  and  respected,  never  left  to 
barbarous  caprice,  nor  to  the  egotistic  want  of  the 
individual.  Beautiful  and  majestic,  even  in  their 
decrepitude,  they  are  as  much  the  property  of  our 
descendants  as  they  were  of  our  ancestors.  Tliey 
are  eternal  temples,  the  miglity  architecture  and 
ornt^mental  fuliation  of  which  is  constantly  re- 
newed ;  sanctuaries  of  silence  and  revery,  where 
successive  generations  have  the  right  to  assemble 


246  niPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

for  meditation,  and  for  the  development  of  that 
sense  of  grandeur  of  which  every  man  has  a  con- 
sciousness and  a  need  in  the  depths  of  his  nature. 
The  forest  of  Fontainebleau  is  not  beautiful 
merely  on  account  of  its  vegetation :  the  undula- 
tions of  its  surface  are  extremely  graceful  and 
elegant^  and  its  piles  of  rock  are  exceedingly 
ornamental ;  but  its  delightful  glades,  its  wonder- 
ful chaos,  its  melancholy  walks,  would  lose  their 
charm  if  deprived  of  trees.  Natural  science,  too, 
has  a  right  to  protest  against  the  destruction  of 
the  smaller  plants,  which  would  be  caused  by  the 
dryness  of  the  atmosphere  after  the  tall  trees  had 
been  removed.  The  botanist  and  the  entomolo- 
gist demand  consideration  as  much  as  the  painter 
and  the  poet ;  but,  aside  from  all  this  elite,  there 
is,  I  repeat,  the  human  race,  which  we  ought  not 
to  deprive  of  any  noble  enjoyment,  especially  just 
after  an  atrocious  war  has  sullied  and  destroyed 
so  many  sacred  objects  in  nature  and  civilization. 
Frenchmen,  we  have  all  of  us,  or  nearly  all  of  us, 
children  or  grandchildren  whom  we  take  by  the 
hand  for  a  walk,  with  a  view  to  instructing  them 
in  our  ideas  of  life,  to  whatever  class  we  belong. 
Wherever  we  are,  we  call  their  attention  to 
surrounding   objects,  —  a   ship,    a   railway   train, 


SANCTUARIES    OF  INITIATION.  247 

a  market,  a  church,  a  river,  a  monutain,  a  city. 
From  the  baker's  shop  where  the  little  prolStaire 
sees  small  cakes  in  the  form  of  men  and  animals, 
to  the  museum  where  the  bourgeois  leads  his  heir, 
explaining,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  what  excites 
his  own  admiration ;  from  the  field  where  the 
peasant  child  gathers  a  flower  or  a  stone,  to  the 
great  royal  parks  and  our  public  gardens,  where 
rich  and  poor  can  see  and  be  instructed,  —  each 
serves  as  a  sanctuary  of  initiation  to  the  child,  or 
to  the  adult  who  has  hitherto  been  deprived  of 
advantages,  and  now  seeks  to  emerge  from  his 
state  of  childhood.  I  know  very  well  that  there 
is  a  2}roletaire  taciturn  or  talkative,  perverse  or 
passionate,  who  cares  only  for  social  contest, 
observes  nothing,  and  makes  no  exertion  to  raise 
his  mind  above  the  level  of  that  condition  against 
which  he  pretends  to  be  struggling  ;  but  there  is 
also  tlie  universal  proletaire,  the  child,  that  is 
the  ignorant  of  all  classes,  he  whom  we  might  fit 
for  social  life,  and  for  the  more  definite  struggles 
of  the  future.  Wc  arc  eacli  liolding  such  a  one 
by  the  hand ;  for  lie  is  the  pupil  of  our  licart,  our 
offs^)ring  wliom  we  carry  in  our  arms.  We  take 
liim  to  walk,  and  mould  his  tliouglils  with  our 
explunalions.     If  ho  be  an  intclligeut  pupil,  he 


248  TMPRESSTONS  AND  BEMINISCENCE8. 

will  very  soon  take  an  interest  in  every  thing  that 
is  subject  to  the  possession  of  the  body  or  the 
mind. 

When  you  have  led  him  to  every  centre 
whence  radiates  social  life,  or  introduced  him  into 
the  midst  of  its  activity ;  when  you  have  ex- 
plained to  him  the  meaning  of  industry,  the 
sciences,  arts,  and  politics,  —  there  remains  one 
feeling  of  which  he  will  have  no  conception  if 
you  have  not  revealed  it  to  him,  and  that  is  a 
religious  respect  for  the  beautiful  in  nature. 
This  is  a  source  of  calm  and  lasting  enjoyment, 
an  immersion  of  the  being  in  the  mysterious 
sources  whence  it  has  sprung,  furnishing  a  pious 
and  positive  conception  of  life,  of  which  your  rail- 
roads, your  ships,  your  factories,  your  theatres, 
and  your  churches  have  given  him  no  clear  and 
accurate  idea.  He  will  perceive  how  life  is  made 
useful  or  wasted ;  but  he  will  not  learn  how  it  is 
produced  and  renewed,  nor  that  man  belongs  to 
himself,  and  has  a  consciousness  of  his  being. 
The  tumult  of  social  existence  causes  us  to  act, 
for  the  most  part,  without  knowing  wh}^,  and  to 
mistake  our  passions  and  appetites  for  actual 
needs.  We  yield  too  seldom  to  meditation,  every 
thing  having  a  tendency  to  divert  our  minds  from 


ARTIFICIALITY  IN  SOCIETY.  249 

this  state.  Society  is  forcibly  hurled  into  a  life 
which  is  artificial  at  every  point,  with  every  form 
of  appetite  or  vanity  to  demand  satisfaction. 
It  has  no  other  aim,  no  other  illusion,  no  other 
promise,  in  the  estimation  of  the  masses. 

Let  us  make  a  little  resistance  (that  is,  as 
much  as  possible,  for,  alas  !  it  will  then  be  but 
little)  against  that  torrent  which  is  sweeping  our 
progeny  into  its  surging  billows.  Do  not  let  us 
narrow  our  horizon  to  the  limits  of  a  field,  or 
the  enclosure  of  a  kitchen-garden.  Let  us  make 
room  for  the  mind  of  the  child,  and  teach  him  to 
imbibe  the  poetry  of  that  creation  which  our  in- 
dustry is  tending  to  completely  denaturalize  with 
fearful  rapidity.  In  these  times,  the  young  man 
who  has  a  keen  sense  of  this  poetry  is  an  excep- 
tional being  ;  for,  in  the  greater  number  of  fami- 
lies nowadays,  contemplation  is  regarded  as  a 
loss  of  time,  and  revery  as  an  idle  or  foolish  haliit. 
Yet  we  are  conscious  of  the  beauty  of  a  land- 
scape, and  we  should  not  wish  the  pupil  to  be  so 
destitute  of  sensibility  as  not  to  perceive  it. 

I  acknowledge  this ;  for  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  systematically  wage  war  on  the  hourf/eois. 
I  have  never  made  a  crusade  against  the  grocers  : 
I   am   convinced  that   they  may  sell  capers   and 


250  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

cloves,  aud  know  that  they  are  desirable  commod- 
ities, not  merely  because  they  bring  in  money, 
but  because  they  are  agreeable  to  the  taste.  I 
feel  that  a  man  may  be  a  good  peasant  and  an 
irreproachable  ploughman,  without  being  deaf  to 
the  song  of  the  lark,  or  insensible  to  the  perfume 
of  the  mayflower.  This  is  as  it  ought  to  be.  I 
should  like  a  man  to  be  a  perfect  notary,  and  yet 
a  poet  while  he  is  rambling  through  the  country, 
or  travelling  along  the  Seine.  I  wish  that  every 
man's  education  were  complete,  and  that  he  were 
denied  no  rudimentary  instruction.  It  is  a  preju- 
dice to  suppose  that  a  man  must  understand  the 
refinements  of  language,  the  resources  of  the 
palette,  the  technicalities  of  art,  to  be  a  delicate 
critic,  or  possess  an  exquisite  sensitiveness.  To 
express  is  an  acquired  faculty :  to  appreciate  is 
a  need,  consequently  a  universal  right.  Artists 
may  throw  all  the  light  they  can,  —  it  is  their  mis- 
sion ;  but  let  us  invite  all  men  to  make'  use  of 
this  right  for  their  own  enjoyment,  and  let  them 
acquire  a  relish  for  it,  without  feeling  obliged  to 
cease  being  good  grocers,  good  farmers,  or  perfect 
notaries,  if  such  is  their  vocation. 

Moreover,  an  education  exclusively  artistic  is 
not  an  infallible  means  of  developing  in  man  a 


THE  PRIVACY  OF  NATURE.  251 

taste  for  the  beautiful  and  the  true.  It  invol-^s 
too  much  discussion,  too  much  conventionalism, 
and  too  many  professional  points.  By  dint  of 
learning  how  to  see,  and  how  to  express  himself,  it 
is  quite  possible  that  the  disciple  of  many  masters 
will  often  lose  the  faculty  of  seeing  with  his  own 
eyes,  and  portraying  with  his  individual  sense. 
Nature  does  not  surrender  herself  at  the  command 
of  the  professor.  Essentially  mysterious,  she  has 
a  particular  revelation  for  each  individual,  and  she 
does  not  repeat  her  methods.  One  must  see  her 
himself,  and  examine  her  Avith  his  own  feelers. 
She  is  eloquent  to  all,  but  never  capable  of  a 
thorough  translation ;  for,  beneath  the  prodigality 
of  her  expressions,  she  has  one  word  concealed, 
which  she  keeps  to  herself;  and,  thank  God  in  the 
name  of  art,  man  will  keep  up  an  eternal  search 
for  this  word.  No  painter,  no  poet,  no  musician, 
no  naturalist,  will  ever  drain  that  cup  of  beauty, 
which  is  continually  overflowing.  The  most  insig- 
nificant little  bird,  as  well  as  the  most  splen- 
did drinker,  will  always  find  wherewith  to  quench 
its  thii-st ;  and  after  you  have  assimilated  your- 
selves into  artists,  poets,  and  naturalists,  you  will 
still  liave  every  thing  to  learn,  if  you  have  not 
seen  Nature  in  her  privacy,  if  you  have  not  in 
person  questioned  the  Sphinx. 


252  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

What  a  conquest  for  man  to  undertake,  for  any 
man  now  living  or  yet  to  be  born  !  To  enter  into 
Nature,  to  seek  the  oracle  of  the  sacred  forest, 
and  bring  back  the  word,  be  it  but  a  single  word, 
which  will  spread  over  his  whole  existence  the 
exquisite  delight  of  the  possession  of  his  being ! 
For  this  it  is  well  worth  while  to  preserve  the 
temples  whence  this  beneficent  divinity  has  not 
yet  been  driven. 

It  is  time  for  us  to  consider  that  Nature  is 
passing  away.  Under  the  hand  of  the  peasant, 
the  trees  are  disappearing,  the  lands  losing  their 
perfume ;  and  we  shall  be  obUged  to  travel  far 
from  cities,  to  enjoy  silence,  to  freely  breathe  the 
emanations  of  the  plant,  or  to  interrupt  the  secrec}'' 
of  the  brook  that  flows  and  babbles  unmolested. 
Everywhere  we  see  felling,  levelling,  straighten- 
ing, fencing,  training.  If,  in  these  cultivated 
tracts  laid  out  by  the  line  and  the  rule,  which 
claim  the  appellation  of  country,  you  see  here 
and  there  a  clump  of  fine  trees,  be  certain  that  it 
is  surrounded  by  walls,  and  that  it  is  private 
property,  where  you  have  no  right  to  take  your 
child,  to  show  him  an  oak  or  a  linden  tree. 

The  rich  alone  have  the  right  to  preserve  a 
small  portion  of  nature  for  their  personal  enjoy-. 


THE  AGRARIAN  LAW.  253 

ment.  By  the  time  that  the  agrarian  law  shall 
be  established,  there  will  not  be  a  tree  remaininir 
in  France.  At  Berry,  the  elm  has  been  mutilated, 
to  feed  the  sheep  in  winter  with  the  leaves,  and 
to  heat  ovens  with  the  branches.  There  is  nothine 
left  now  but  deformities. 

Everybody  knows  the  history  of  the  white 
Avillow  in  France.  It  is  our  finest  tree,  and  orrows 
to  an  enormous  size.  Tliere  are  now,  perhaps, 
not  three  remaining  ;  although  certain  regions  are 
covered  with  little  clusters  of  whitish  foliaee 
supported  on  great,  shapeless  logs  of  wood 
abounding  in  cracks ;  and  these  are  the  white 
willow,  the  giant  of  our  clime. 

The  majority  of  the  extensive  woods  have 
decreased  in  size.  Where  can  we  now  find  the 
forest  of  Ardennes?  Those  which  are  yet  ex- 
tant are  in  process  of  demolition,  and  liave  no 
durable  beauty.  As  tlie  need  for  wood  becomes 
more  pressing,  the  tree,  hardly  fnll-grown,  is 
disrespectfully  and  remorselessly  hewn  down. 
How  many  noble  giants  of  the  forest  have  been 
seen  to  fall  ])y  persons  of  my  age  I  There  are  no 
nioi'e  left.  We  must  now  invent  fiaine-works  of 
iron  ;  for  very  soon  we  shiill  not  be  able  t<»  liml 
either   l^eanis    or    rafters.      Everywliere    fuel    is 


254  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

expensive  and  scarce.  Coal  is  dear  too ;  for 
Nature  is  becoming  exhausted,  and  scientific 
industry  cannot  immediately  devise  a  ijemedy. 

Shall  we  send  to  America  for  all  our  lumber? 
But  the  virgin  forest  is  fast  vanishing,  and  in  its 
turn  will  become  exhausted.  If  we  are  not  care- 
ful, the  tree  will  disappear,  and  the  end  of  the 
world  will  take  place  from  dryness,  without  the 
necessity  of  a  deluge  ;  and  this  will  be  the  fault 
of  man.  Do  not  laugh.  Those  who  have  studied 
the  subject  view  it  with  terror. 

More  trees  will  be  planted,  many  are  being 
planted,  I  know  ;  but  the  work  was  commenced 
so  late  that  the  evil  is,  perhaps,  irreparable. 
Another  summer  like  that  of  1870  in  France,  and 
we  shall  see  if  an  equilibrium  can  be  maintained 
between  the  exigencies  of  consumption,  and  the 
productive  forces  of  the  soil.  There  is  one 
question  which  has  not  been  sufficiently  studied, 
and  still  remains  in  mystery.  It  is  this:  Nature 
becomes  weary  when  man  changes  her  work. 
She  has  habits  which  she  quits  forever,  if  inter- 
rupted for  too  long  a  time,  putting  her  forces  to 
another  use.  She  was  inclined  to  produce  the 
larger  vegetation,  and  liberally  furnished  sap. 
Condemned   to    transfer   her   influences,  the  soil 


THE  DOMAIN  OF  MAN.  255 

adopts  another  means  of  action.  Cleared  and 
manured,  it  becomes  fertile  at  the  surface,  but 
loses  its  mighty  depth  of  power ;  and  it  is  not  by 
any  means  certain  that  this  can  be  restored  at 
pleasure. 

The  domain  of  man  is  growing  too  narrow  for 
his  aooflomerations.  It  needs  extension.  The 
population  ought  to  emigrate,  and  seek  the  wil- 
derness. In  this  way,  it  would  go  on  all  right ; 
for  this  planet  is  still  vast  and  rich  enough  for 
the  number  of  its  inhabitants ;  but  there  is  great 
peril  in  delay.  The  cravings  of  men  are  becom- 
ing imperious  necessities,  Avhich  nothing  can 
restrain ;  and,  if  these  nocestsities  are  not  con- 
trolled, there  will  in  time  be  no  proportion  be- 
tween the  demands  of  man  and  the  productions 
of  the  planet.  Who  knows  but  whole  societies 
have  been  swept  away  by  desolation  ?  Who 
knows  but  our  satellite,  which  we  suppose  desti- 
tute of  inliabitants  and  void  of  atmosphere,  has 
lost  its  poi)ulati()n  through  the  improvidence  of 
generations,'  and  the  exhaustion  of  the  over- 
stimulated  forces  of  surrounding  nature  ? 

^  While  waiting  for  humanity  to  wake  up  and 
bethink  itself,  let  our  forests  be  preserved,  let  our 
grand  old  trees  be  respected ;    and,  if  it  must  bo 


256  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

ill  tlie  name  of  art,  if  this  consideration  has  any 
weight  in  these  times,  let  us  come  to  the  assist- 
ance of  our  intrepid  artists ;  but  let  us  likewise 
bravely  protest,  in  the  name  of  our  own  rights, 
against  brutish  and  insane  measures.  "Whilst,  on 
every  side,  very  unsightly  churches  are  being  con- 
structed, do  not  let  us  suffer  the  grand  cathedrals 
of  nature,  which  exercised  a  powerful  influence 
over  our  ancestors  in  the  rearing  of  their  temples, 
to  be  snatched  from  the  veneration  of  our  descend- 
ants. When  the  earth  shall  have  become  mutilated 
and  devastated,  our  productions  and  our  ideas  will 
accord  with  the  poor,  unsightly  objects  which  meet 
our  eyes  at  every  turn.  Narrow  ideas  re-act  upon 
our  feelings,  which  become  warped  and  impover- 
ished. Man  needs  to  see  Eden  in  the  distance. 
I  know  that  many  say,  "  After  we  are  gone,  the 
world  will  come  to  an  end."  This  is  the  most 
detestable  and  blasphemous  speech  that  man  could 
litter.  It  is  a  formal  resignation  of  his  condition 
as  man  ;  for  it  is  the  ruptare  of  the  link  that 
connects  generations. 

NOHANT,  XOV.  6. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

l'angusta. 

I  SHALL  review  this  work  uninfluenced  by  my 
personal  feelings  towards  the  author,  whom  I 
love  beyond  every  thing.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  am 
yielding  to  the  sin  of  partiality  in  saying  that  I 
entertain  a  very  high  opinion  of  his  book.  If 
people  ill-disposed  towards  us,  or  those  differing 
from  us  in  taste,  think  me  wrong,  others  more 
benevolent,  or  more  inclined  to  encoui'age  certain 
attempts,  will  tliink  me  right. 

I  am  of  opinion,  that,  among  other  new  works, 
we  ought  to  turn  our  attention  to  the  romance, 
which  is,  when  we  consider  tlie  degree  of  perfec- 
tion to  which  it  is  carried  at  the  present  day,  an 
artistic  production  of  recent  creation. 

Formerly  a  romance  sufficed  for  the  enjoyment 
of^one  or  more  centuries:  now  a  new  one  is  re- 
quired almost  every  day.  I  tlo  not  claim  tliat  the 
novel  is  of  rec(!iit  invent  ion  ;  IdiL  we  may  say  that 

257 


258  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

its  development  has  taken  place  in  response  to  new 
requirements ;  and,  in  this  sense,  we  may  consider 
it  as  an  art  belonging  specially  to  modern  times. 

Without  entering  into  any  criticism,  but  merely 
for  the  sake  of  research  and  examination,  as  we 
study  objects  in  nature  without  pretending  to  call 
on  science,  I  ask  myself  if  there  is  any  one  method 
for  constructing  a  novel,  and  if  every  one  has  not 
a  right  to  employ  his  own  universally,  or  to  vary 
it  at  pleasure.  I  do  not  see  any  absolute  rule 
to  propose  in  this  regard.  Every  school  method 
appears  to  me  only  an  impediment.  I  regard  the 
art  of  novel-writing  as  an  art  pre-eminently  free ; 
free  as  human  speech,  which  prevents  no  one  who 
is  able  to  make  use  of  it,  from  relating  a  storj''  in 
his  own  way,  provided  his  mind  can  furnish  one. 
So  all  methods  are  good,  and  all  serve  as  a  study 
for  him  who  is  seeking  the  best  style ;  but,  after 
all,  the  best  style  is  always  that  used  by  the 
greatest  mind. 

This  granted,  we  can  take  pleasure  in  seeing 
the  same  author  pursue  different  methods.  One 
day  Balzac,  the  leader  of  French  romance  in  our 
century,  took  a  notion  to  publish  some  droll 
stories ;  and,  to  render  them  inaccessible  to  vulgar 
minds  that  might  make   an  abuse  of  them,  he 


BALZAC  AND    GAUTIKR.  259 

attempted  to  write  them  in  the  style  and  orthog- 
raphy of  Rabehiis.  In  this  way  the  book  was 
a  sort  of  guarded  treasure  which  the  learned, 
serious  in  their  nature, could  alone  enjoy;  at  least, 
such  was  Balzac's  idea.  Was  he  right,  or  wrong? 
He  would  have  been  wrong  to  lose  his  sauce,  as 
he  expressed  it,  or  to  make  it  so  deep  that  it 
would  have  drowned  his  genius.  This  is  what  I 
feared,  and  M'hat  I  told  him.  Fortunately,  this 
contingency  did  not  depend  on  himself.  Such 
attempts  are  harmless  for  persons  of  such  power- 
ful individuality. 

Th(;ophile  Gautier,  in  his  preface  to  "  Capitaiue 
Fracasse,"  promises  the  reader  that  the  conversa- 
tion of  his  characters  shall  be  that  of  the  time  in 
which  they  are  rei)resented  as  living.  The  aullior 
was  not  to  appear  himself,  and  llie  work  was  to 
be  "  in  noway  historical  except  in  the  coloring 
of  its  style."  God  be  praised,  liis  promise  was 
not  kept !  Gauticr's  admirable  style  gained  the 
mastery  over  all  predilections  i'ov  an(i(piity,  tlie 
few  ancient  expressions  whidi  lie  introduced  here 
and  tlierc  Ijcing  Ijlemishes.  Tlie  linest  passages, 
ii\id  those  most  relished,  are  those  in  which  (he 
author  ajipears,  as  in  Halzac's  droll  .stories,  nol- 
withslanfling  their  resolnlion  to  the  contrary. 


260  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

It  is  not  merely  the  words,  and  forms  of  expres- 
sion, that  change :  it  is  the  different  shades  of 
ideas  which  they  represent.  The  simple  and  the 
labored  styles  belong  to  certain  stages  of  enlighten- 
ment ;  and  the  greatest  minds  of  one  of  these 
epochs  (although,  in  a  literary  sense,  it  may  be 
superior  to  the  others)  may,  in  an  historical  point 
of  view,  be  inferior  to  those  of  some  other  epoch. 
He  who  would  retain  the  precise  color  of  any  one 
age  must  ruthlessly  discard  certain  ideas  of  an- 
other age.  Some  of  our  ideas  of  the  present  day 
could  not  be  rendered  in  the  ancient  languages; 
and,  even  without  going  very  far  into  the  past, 
it  would  be  difficult  to  make  one's  characters 
describe  certain  impressions,  of  which  the}^  have 
been  perhaj^s  vaguely  conscious,  but  have  never 
tried  to  understand,  or  else  have  been  unable  to 
express. 

With  sincere  modesty,  the  author  of  "  L'An- 
gusta  "  has  often  considered  the  manner  of  solving 
the  problem  of  history  and  literature  combined 
which  I  have  just  been  discussing,  and  of  which 
we  have  often  conversed  together  while  engaged 
in  the  study  of  ancient  language.  Although 
much  of  his  time  has  been  devoted  to  researches 
into  natural  history,  he  has  not  entirely  neglected 


CALLIRHOE.  261 

liis  reading  of  literatui-e ;  and  being  endowed 
with  an  exceedingly  vivid  and  fertile  imagina- 
tion, which  the  study  of  positive  objects  seems 
rather  to  kindle  than  to  extinguish,  one  of  his 
amusements,  which  I  have  often  shared,  is  to 
withdraw  his  mind  for  a  time  from  the  actual 
present,  and  imagine  himself  as  living  at  some 
particular  epoch  in  the  past.  He  has  described 
such  a  condition  of  the  mind  in  his  romance 
of  "  Callirhod,"  in  which  a  man  of  modern  times, 
by  the  study  of  Etruscan  and  Roman  antiquity, 
becomes  so  enamoured  of  that  period,  that  his 
imagination  converts  historical  facts  into  personal 
reminiscences  ;  and  he,  quite  innocently,  begins  to 
relate  his  own  experiences  at  the  time  of  the 
invasion  of  Rome  by  tlie  Gauls.  This  fancy 
takes  such  a  hold  upon  him  as  to  Ijecome  a  con- 
viction ;  and  he  seems  to  recognize,  in  those  about 
him,  liis  fiiends  and  enemies  of  former  times. 

After  having  fiiiislied  "  Callirho^,"  jMauricc 
Sand,  incidentally  turning  liis  attention  to  arcluc- 
ology  and  history,  became  intensely  interested 
in  the  middle  ages.  Wisliing  to  give  me  a  reca- 
j)iMdation  of  liis  rea<ling  and  researches,  he  began, 
in  fun,  to  relate  to  me,  in  the  first  person,  the 
life  of  a  cavalier  of  llie   thirteenth  century,  just 


262  IMPHESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

as,  in  "  Callirho^,"  Marc  gives  the  life  of  a  Gallic 
conqueror.  I  found  this  so  amusing  and  inter- 
esting, that  I  prevailed  upon  him  to  write  it. 
Assisted  by  his  great  facihty  in  composition, 
he  produced  "  Raoul  de  la  Chastre  ; "  a  novel  so 
closely  resembling  a  chronicle  translated,  from 
beginning  to  end,  from  the  same  writer,  that  he 
was  taken  in  earnest  by  the  descendants  of  certain 
families.  Alexandre  Dumas,  sen.,  writing  to  me 
on  the  subject,  after  much  praise  bestowed  on 
the  author,  remarks,  "  It  is  an  extraordinarily 
successful  book.  I  have  sought  in  vain  to  dis- 
cover the  method  of  its  composition." 

The  method  was  very  simple.  The  author 
absolutely  discarded  literary  or  philosophical  per- 
sonality, to  identify  himself  with  a  type  which 
has  no  analogy  at  the  present  day.  He  under- 
stood perfectly  the  historical  character  of  a 
doughty  knight  in  the  time  of  holy  Louis  and 
Philippe  le  Hardi.  He  Avell  knew  that  a  strong 
and  generous  nature,  thrown  among  half-barbar- 
ous surroundings,  must  have  combined  the  life 
of  a  hero  and  a  bandit,  an  unrestrained  sensualist 
and  an  excellent  paterfamilias;  that  he  must 
have  believed  in  the  Devil,  and  a  very  little  in 
the  Church ;  occasionally  having  the  feelings  of 


MAURICE  SAND'S  METHOD.  263 

a  true  Christian,  and  even  admirable  philosophical 
perceptions  (like  Roger  Bacon,  that  great  prophet 
of  science)  ;  then,  falling  back  into  the  childish 
wonder  of  his  age,  treating  royalty  with  con- 
tempt, and  constituting  himself  the  chief  of 
gangs  ;  not  having  comprehended  French  patri- 
otism in  its  present  light ;  encountering  adven- 
tui'cs ;  undertaking,  at  his  own  expense  and 
under  his  own  leadership,  crusades  and  con- 
quests ;  finally  becoming  a  rich  and  powerful 
lord,  abounding  in  gallantry  and,  surfeited  with 
spoils,  still  remaining  the  best  husband  in  the 
world,  a  loyal  cavalier,  and  a  zealous  redresscr 
of  wrongs.  These  incompatibilities,  which  appear 
so  dreadful  to  us,  seamed  then  quite  natural,  as 
their  brutality  was  a  relative  civilization  wlicn 
we  consider  the  otlier  classes  of  the  society  of 
tins  epoch,  —  the  workman  (a  synonyme  for 
slave),  tlie  artist,  the  poet,  all  obliged  to  be- 
come valets ;  the  peasant  rendering  homage  to 
Satan,  that  he  might  prevent  liim  from  having 
children  to  maintain,  &c.  The  corruption  of  tliis 
epoch  w;us  open  and  unrestrained.  Tin-  idea  oi"  a 
liero  who  encounters  all  tine  tragic  and  burlesque 
adventures  of  this  formidable  age,  without  faint- 
ing, and  without  llie  least  astonishment,  enduring 


264  J3fPRE8SI0NS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

the  dungeon  and  torture,  not  to  mention  wounds 
inflicted  in  battle,  in  order  to  become  at  last  a 
contented  and  happy  man,  —  here  was  surely  a 
bold  conception,  which  demanded,  for  its  exe- 
cution, an  extraordinary  inspiration,  a  fixed  deter- 
mination, and  a  certain  indifference  as  to  "  WJiat 
will  they  say?''^  This  is  a  species  of  literary 
courajre  to  be  commended. 

The  book  has  scandalized  those  persons  who  feel 
that  the  author  ought  to  be  responsible  for  all  the 
deeds  and  movements  of  his  characters ;  but  those 
who  appreciate  a  true  book,  one  well  conceived 
and  well  executed  from  beginning  to  end,  value  it 
very  highly  indeed  ;  while  those  who  desire  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  life  and  color  of  a 
certain  age  have  read  it  with  interest  and  profit  — 
foremost  among  whom  is  myself. 

Don  Juan  has  become  a  favorite  type  with  our 
generation.  A  sincere  Cathohc,  M.  Laverdant,  a 
man  of  an  inquiring  and  original  turn,  has  given 
us  a  Don  Juan,  in  many  pages  of  which  may  be 
found  great  depth  and  real  beauty.  The  legend 
of  Don  Juan  might  l^e  repeated  a  hundred  times, 
from  every  point  of  view.  He  is  some  such  a  myth 
as  Faust,  who  represents  the  struggle  of  mind  over 
matter.      Don  Juan  contends  openly  for  matter 


RAOUL   AND   ROGER  BACON.  265 

against  mind.  He  is  in  Rabelais ;  for  every  age 
has  had  its  Don  Juan  and  its  Faust ;  and,  if  we 
would  reflect,  we  should  see  that  every  thinking- 
man  has  followed,  in  reality  or  in  imagination,  one 
of  these  two  courses.  Maurice  Sand  touches  on 
Loih  in  his  novel.  Raoul  is  the  barbarous  Don 
Juan,  whose  instinct  is  triumphant ;  and  Roger 
Bacon,  Faust  victorious  over  hell.  Raoul  repre- 
sents the  energetic  and  sensual  body  of  the  thir- 
teenth century,  penetrated  by  a  fugitive  ray  of 
intellectual  light  projected  by  Bacon.  The  latter 
is  one  of  those  prodigious  apparitions  of  eternal 
truth  cast,  like  divine  manifestations,  into  the 
midst  of  social  darkness.  Bacon  predicted  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  the  scientific,  philosophical 
and  industrial  conquests  of  the  nineteenth.  It  is 
not  necessary  to  inform  the  reader  that  Maurice 
Sand  has  made  Bacon  speak  according  to  his 
(Sajid's)  fancy.  Bacon  ought  to  be  read ;  for 
liere  is  wlierc  Maurice  Sand  is  most  ambitious  of 
success. 

I  will  not  revicNV  my  son's  other  works,  which 
are  the  effect  of  his  natural  method.  As  my  space 
is  limited,  I  will  speak  only  of  "  Lc  ('o<i  aux  Che- 
vcux  d"()r,"  one  of  tliu  strangest  and  most  curious 
of  ;ill  his  books,  l)eforc  turning  my  attention  to  liis 
latest  novel,  ''  I/Angusla." 


26G  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

"  Le  Coq  aux  Cheveux  d'Or  "  is  the  name  of  a 
Scythian  warrior  who  has  a  volcano  for  a  rival  ! 
An  odd  fancy,  but  not  purely  imaginative.  We 
are  introduced  into  the  midst  of  the  mythology  of 
ante-historical  times ;  and  when  we  study  deeply 
into  these  ancient  notions,  scattering  vestiges  of 
which  in  the  memory  of  men  have  furnished  mate- 
rial for  so  many  learned  and  curious  books,  we  are 
literally  dazzled  by  the  imagination  of  the  primi- 
tive man.  What  are  our  fairy  tales,  the  wonderful 
stories  of  the  East,  the  fancies  of  the  Germans  and 
the  Sclavonians,  the  sombre  or  grotesque  visions 
of  the  middle  ages,  to  these  traditions  of  the 
human  mind  at  the  time  of  its  first  flight  ?  Every 
thing  is  a  marvel  to  it,  as  to  the  child,  who  personi- 
fies all  the  phenomena  which  excite  his  wonder. 

This  offered  sufficient  temptation  for  a  man  fond 
of  meditating,  and  of  lioarding  up  those  precious 
tilings  which  fashion  disdains.  No  better  herba- 
rium for  these  plants,  which  will  no  longer  thrive 
in  the  new  soil,  than  the  leaves  of  a  novel.  The 
author  of  "Callirhoe,"  faithful  to  his  work  of 
retrospection,  introduced  into  his  romance  beings 
sometimes  half  gods  and  half  men,  sometimes  half 
men  and  half  monsters.  He  searched  all  the 
cradles  of  religious  antiquity  for  those  symbolical 


A   CURIOUS  ROMANCE.  267 

figures  which  surrounded  the  human  race  when 
it  struggled  to  get  out  of  its  own  cradle.  Nothing 
so  strange  and  yet  so  grand  as  some  of  these 
figures  ;  nothing  so  marvellous  as  the  part  they 
performed  in  growing  society.  The  romance  of 
"  Le  Coq  aux  Cheveux  d'Or,"  in  a  rapid  and  florid 
style,  introduces  the  god  Ptah,  that  genius  of  sub- 
terranean fires,  whom  the  savage  warrior  is  to  fight 
and  conquer,  that  he  may  obtain  possession  of  the 
priestess  Hernia,  his  fiancee.  After  many  hercu- 
lean efforts,  the  warrior,  that  is,  Nemeith,  rescu- 
ing his  beloved,  is  overtaken,  in  his  flight,  by  the 
deluge.  The  picture  of  the  cataclysm  which  is 
about  to  swallow  up  the  Atlantis  is  truly  grand  and 
terrific.  Through  means  in  accordance  with  such 
a  scene,  the  lovers  escape.  Hernia  has  received, 
from  her  dying  mother,  an  amulet,  a  present  from 
Prometheus  her  ancestor,  which  she  is  not  to  open 
till  the  ai>proach  of  death.  She  opens  it,  and  a 
sunbeam  escapes,  that  scatters  the  clouds.  The 
lovers  reach  the  Scythian  land,  where  they  bccorao 
the  founders  of  the  Caucasian  race. 

This  novel  is  taken  for  a  fairy  tale ;  and  yet  it 
is  an  accumulation  of  the  most  arduous  labors 
of  tlje  scholar.  Very  few  persons  have  the  leisure 
or  the  taste  to  read  such  works,  which  require. 


268  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

for  their  appreciation,  special  preliminary  studies. 
Maurice  Sand  has  placed  within  the  reach  of  all 
an  exceedingly  animated  narrative,  by  which  we 
can  become  initiated,  in  a  few  hours,  into  the 
many  fabulous  accounts  of  our  historical  origin. 

In  "L' Augusta"  Maurice  has  been  once  more 
carried  away  by  the  vision  of  a  period  which  he 
studied  for  his  personal  instruction.  He  enjoyed 
exceedingly  the  works  of  MM.  Thierry ;  and, 
amidst  the  sources  whence  these  great  historians 
have  drawn  with  so  much  discernment,  he  experi- 
enced an  intuition  of  the  life  of  the  fifth  century 
of  our  era.  He  was  struck  with  a  certain  resem- 
blance to  our  own  century ;  and,  when  I  feared 
that  he  was  undertaking  a  period  too  remote  for 
general  comprehension  in  a  novel,  he  very  reason- 
ably answered  that  man  of  the  Lower  Empire,  by 
his  situation,  his  ideas,  his  tastes,  and  Ms  language, 
bore  a  much  greater  resemblance  to  us  than  man 
of  the  middle  ages.  "  One  could  make  of  a 
Caius  Claudius  Umbo,  or  any  other  Gallic-Roman," 
said  he,  "  a  much  more  intelligible  character 
to-day  than  of  Raoul  de  la  Chastre  of  the  thir- 
teenth century ;  and  it  appears  to  me  that  it  could 
be  accomplished  with  greater  ease.  We  have 
there   authors   fruitful    in   detail,  and   a   written 


COMIC  CHARACTERS.  269 

language,  Latin  before  it  has  died  out.  I  find, 
too,  comic  characters,  ancient  types  which  I  have 
met  and  seized  by  the  hair,  as  it  were,  in  my 
investigations  into  the  origin  of  masks  and  buffoons. 
These  emperors  of  the  East  have  handsome  Lean- 
ders ;  these  formidable  Huns  have  bullies ;  and 
Sidoine  Apollinaire  is  the  pedant  of  the  troop. 
The  remarkable  women  of  this  epoch  are  superior 
in  education  to  those  of  to-day;  and,  as  to  the 
epoch  itself,  it  is  characterized  by  religious  con- 
tests bordering  on  general  scepticism,  as  at  the 
present  time." 

The  next  day  he  read  me  Claudius  Umbo's  first 
letter,  and  I  advised  him  to  continue.  Most  of 
the  documents  of  these  times,  that  we  possess,  are 
precisely  in  the  form  of  letters.  It  seemed  odd 
to  me  to  see  a  novel  composed  of  such  ancient 
material,  and  transformed,  with  apparent  ease, 
from  that  epistolary  style  which  requires  the 
characters  to  speak  for  themselves  without  any 
philosophical  explanation  by  the  narrator.  This 
is  a  very  good  exercise  for  a  special  study  of  the 
Latin  language.  The  character  of  Eugenius  Cre- 
ticus  is  a  remarkable  specimen  of  that  literature, 
at  the  same  time  Christian  and  I'agan,  which  has 
a  right  to   bo  quoted   as  well    as   any  other.     The 


270  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

manners,  customs,  and  material  situations  are 
described  without  any  display  of  learning.  True 
life  flows  abundantly  throughout  this  book.  Pub- 
lished in  M.  de  Girardin's  "  La  Liberte,"  just 
before  the  invasion,  it  has  a  tint  of  melancholy 
prophecy,  seeming  to  signalize  the  immediate 
causes  of  our  calamities.  Yet  these  calamities 
were  as  little  foreseen  at  Nohant  as  at  Paris  ;  but, 
in  studying  into  the  description  of  a  great  social 
dissolution  of  the  Latin  race,  the  narrator  must 
have  foreseen  the  new  crisis  in  his  fancy. 

Like  Maurice  Sand's  other  novels,  "  L' Augusta  " 
passes  rapidly  over  adventures,  combats,  reverses, 
passion,  and  enterprises.  It  has  always  been  my 
opinion  that,  either  in  events  or  sentiments,  a 
novel  ought,  of  all  things,  to  be  romantic.  In 
accordance  with  his  idea  of  historical  romance, 
Maurice,  very  sensibly,  rejects  ideality.  He  does 
not  try  to  force  an  opinion  nor  a  doctrine  into  the 
heads  of  his  characters.  To  him,  they  are  not 
exceptional  beings  :  they  impersonate  fractions  of 
the  race  to  which  they  belong.  They  represent 
family,  tribe,  species,  like  the  classifications  which 
assist  him  in  the  study  of  nature  ;  for  persons  of 
our  time  are  sensible  of  what  Edgar  Quinet  has 
admirably  demonstrated,  —  that  the  history  of  man 


CHARACTER   OF  MAURICE'S  NOVELS.  271 

is  dependent  on  the  same  laws  of  development  as 
those  which  stand  foremost  in  the  development  of 
our  planet. 

But  if  Maurice  Sand  omits  the  minute  details 
of  the  individual,  if  he  does  not  seek  to  infuse 
into  the  latter  the  romantic  ideal,  he  retains,  in 
the  position  in  which  he  places  him,  the  romantic 
interest  of  situation  and  action.  If  almost  all 
his  novels  are  conscientious  productions  of  social 
history,  all  are  what  is  called  entertaining  in  the 
highest  degree,  even  to  those  readers  who  do  not 
appreciate  the  earnestness  of  his  efforts  and  aim. 
His  is  a  healthy  and  well-kept  mind,  consequently 
never  wearied  nor  discouraged  with  his  subject, 
never  disturljed  by  the  thought  of  what  reception 
will  be  given  him  by  the  public,  writing  only 
under  the  influence  of  an  exceedingly  tenacious 
mental  obsession.  "  This  must  come  to  me  during 
meditation,"  he  says,  "and  force  me  to  get  rid  of 
it.  I  must  feel  myself  surrounded  by  apparitions 
which  tulk  to  me,  and  move  about  mo :  otherwise 
I  feel  no  inclination  to  write." 

Nevertheless,  there  are  true  bursts  of  natural 
genius  and  spontaneous  poetry  in  these  earnest 
narrations,  in  which  the  powerful  touches  of  the 
painting     prevail     over     refined    analysis.      I'lio 


272  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

moments  allowed  the  characters  for  reflection  are 
short  but  effective.  I  was  much  interested  in  the 
account  given  by  Claudius  Umbo,  who,  having 
escaped  from  his  pursuers  after  being  carried  to 
a  distance,  travels  through  unknown  countries 
invaded  by  barbarians.  A  woman  of  the  tribe  of 
the  Acatzires,  who  has  lost  her  father,  brothers, 
and  husband  in  the  melee,  offers  him  a  seat  in 
her  chariot ;  and  together  they  perform  the  rite  of 
invoking  the  moon.  They  travel,  that  is  to  say, 
they  flee,  across  "  a  devastated  country  without 
resources  and  without  inha])itants,  through  villages 
in  ruins,  heaps  of  debris,  woods,  swamj)s,  and 
plains  strewed  with  human  bones  whitened  by 
the  sun  and  rain,  the  remnants  of  the  massacres 
which  have  depopulated  these  unfortunate  coun- 
tries." Bands  of  hungry  and  exasperated  men 
pass  like  vultures  over  these  deserted  fields,  kill- 
ing and  devouring  whatever  they  find.  One  of 
these  bands  discovers  the  chariot  in  which  Kolotza 
has  just  died  of  that  pestilence  which  always 
accompanies  great  invasions.  Just  as  Claudius  is 
about  to  bury  him,  the  band  lay  hold  of  the 
former,  take  out  his  oxen  to  eat  them,  rob  the 
chariot,  break  it  to  pieces,  and  throw  the  corpse 
to  the  wolves.     These  flock  around  it  as  soon  as 


A    GRAND  PICTURE.  273 

the  bandits  have  departed.  Claudius,  wounded 
and  fastened  to  the  upright  pole  of  the  chariot, 
is  restored  to  consciousness  "  by  such  a  brilliant 
moonlight  that  the  ground  appears  to  be  covered 
with  snow."  He  breaks  from  his  bonds,  collects 
"the  sad  remains  of  Kolotza,"  and  buries  them 
as  well  as  he  can,  beneath  a  stone. 

"  I  coidd  not  tell  you,  Marius,  in  what  part  of 
Germany  this  tomb  is  situated.  My  life  seems 
like  a  dream  ;  and  certain  parts  of  this  dream 
appear  to  have  been  swallowed  up  by  the  sinking 
in  of  a  world." 

A  little  farther  on,  I  find  a  grandly  drawn 
picture  of  the  tragic  side  of  the  epoch.  A  her- 
mit has  received  the  fugitive  dying  with  hunger, 
and  is  exhorting  him  to  become  an  egotist.  "  Do 
you  not  see,  my  son,  that  the  end  of  the  world  is 
approacliiiig  ?  Every  thing  is  going  simultane- 
ously ;  the  old  and  liaughty  empires  are  crum- 
bling, and  civilized  nations  no  longer  possess  tlie 
earth.  It  is  ravaged  by  strange  men  who  will 
disapjjcar  in  their  turn  ;  for  they  have  not  under- 
stood the  gospel,  and  their  deeds  would  sliock 
Heaven.  It  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  find, 
in  these  times  of  desohition,  th(!  least  liappincss, 
even  quietness,  upon  earth.     Every  thing  is  uncer- 


274  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

tain.  Property  is  now  but  a  vain  word,  domestic 
life  is  a  hell,  and  love  a  traffic.  War  is  on  all 
sides ;  and,  to  live  in  peace,  one  must  lead  the  life 
of  a  troglodyte  in  the  depths  of  the  woods,  and 
the  excavations  of  rocks." 

The  character  of  Attila  is  drawn  by  a  painter's 
hand.  We  see  her,  and  almost  love  her,  she  is  so 
lifelike  and  human.  But  I  have  said  enough, 
and -I  ask  the  reader's  pardon  for  having  spoken 
of  my  son  without  excessive  modesty.  Still  it 
appears  to  me  that  it  would  have  been  unjust  to 
let  affection  prevent  me  from  rendering  him  jus- 
tice. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 


BETWEEN   TWO   CLOUDS. 


NoHANT,  Dec.  3,  1872. 

DURING  the  last  fortnight  of  political  excite- 
ment, minds  have  been  in  unison  with  the 
atmosphere,  full  of  clouds  and  tempests ;  for  the 
weather  exerts  a  greater  influence  than  we  think 
over  the  character  and  ideas  of  man. 

In  the  midst  of  this  deluge,  which  has  confined 
us  to  the  country,  we  have  had  some  days  as 
lovely  as  spring.  The  21st  of  November  and  the 
1st  of  December  especially  were  real  feasts  of 
nature.  The  1st  of  December,  which  was  day 
before  yesterday,  I  actually  lived  in  forgetfulness 
of  my  age  and  my  shoes.  I  walked  with  as  much 
pleasure  and  animation  as  I  could  have  done  sixty 
years  ago.  This  is  interesting  only  to  my  chil- 
dren and  friends,  I  know  ;  but,  if  I  write  about 
this  walk,  it  is  for  the  lovui-s  of  iialure,  as  tliry 
used  to  say  when  I  was  young,  with  a  slight  hope 
and  groat  desire  to  attract  the  attention  of  minds 

27C 


276  IMPRESSIONS   AND   REMINISCENCES. 

too  intent  on  every-day  affairs.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary that  these  affairs  should  be  forgotten,  and 
that  sociality  should  be  destroyed ;  but  when 
some  fine  opportunity  is  presented,  like  an  invita- 
tion from  the  rosy  sky  and  the  verdant  earth,  then 
they  might  be  laid  aside  ;  and  a  stupid  fellow  he 
who  disdains  or  neglects  such  an  opportunity ! 

At  noon  my  son  called  to  me,  "  The  carriage 
is  ready :  the  children  are  in,  and  asking  for  you." 
"  Has  it  entirely  cleared  off?  " 
"  Yes.     Don't  you  see  that  it  has  ?  " 
"  I  was  reading  about  the  meeting." 
"  We    will   read    about    it   as   we    go    along. 
Hurry :    fine  days  are  rare  now,  and   fine  hours 
short." 

I  seized  Jeannette,  a  garden-knife,  a  trowel,  and 
I  was  ready.  You  all  know  what  Jeannette  is  ? 
No  ?  If  I  should  tell  you  that  it  is  the  box  of 
Dillenius,  you  would  think  me  very  pedantic.  I 
should  think  so  too  ;  so  I  much  prefer  the  pretty 
little  rural  name  which  unpretending  amateur 
botanists  have  given  to  this  tin  box  painted  green. 
It  is  hung  on  a  leather  strap,  and  carried  under 
the  arm,  so  that  any  particularly  interesting 
plants  may  be  brought  home  without  fading. 
To-day   all   the   flowers    were    interesting,    for 


BOTANIZING.  211 

they  Avere  rare;  besides,  Ave  left  the  calcareous 
for  the  granitic  soil,  and  the  flora  here  offers 
many  specimens  which  we  cannot  find  within  the 
limits  of  a  short  drive. 

Our  first  act  was  to  arrange  ourselves  in  the 
carriage,  with  our  stock  of  tools.  Mine  were 
very  modest,  and  took  up  little  room,  for  I  held 
them  all  in  my  lap.  My  son's  were  more  consid- 
erable. In  the  first  place,  there  was  a  troubleau,  a 
kind  of  strong  linen  bag  confined  to  an  iron  lioop, 
and  furnished  with  a  very  unyielding  handle ; 
for  this  implement  has  rough  work  to  do.  It 
is  intended  to  ynoio  the  thick,  rough  carpet  of  the 
T)rakes  and  heaths.  I  underline  "  mow,"  because 
it  does  not  apparently  mow,  as  it  neither  destroys 
nor  injures  a  single  plant.  It  works  with  a  quick 
motion  from  right  to  left,  like  a  scytlie  ;  but,  in  a 
skilful  liund,  it  is  not  ut  all  injurious  lo  vegeta- 
tion, for  its  use  is  to  gather  intact  the  delicate  and 
interesting  little  creatures  that  have  their  abode 
here.  These  creatures,  whicli  are  injurious  to  the 
trees  of  the  forests,  arc  all  juofit  to  Ihc  naturalist, 
who  gathers  thousands  of  young  worms  to  take 
Ijome  in  the  very  snial!  JcannuLtcs  wliicli  tlio 
entoraolo''ist  carries  in  his  pocket.**.  Thev  are 
kept,  during  the  winter,  in  large  boxes  of  wire- 


278  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

gauze,  and  provided,  every  day,  with  suitable  food. 
Among  the  worms  thus  gathered,  many  are  per- 
haps devoid  of  interest.  This  can  be  ascertained 
when  they  have  changed  their  skin  several  times. 
Some  will  surely  be  valuable  ;  for  science  is  still 
far  from  knowing  all  the  larvse  of  the  catalogued 
lepidoptera.  It  knows  hardly  any  thing  of  their 
different  conditions ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this 
want  of  knowledge,  it  frequently  mistakes  varie- 
ties for  species,  and  species  for  varieties.  The 
caterpillar,  so  despised  by  those  who  do  not  un- 
derstand its  position  in  nature,  is  notwithstand- 
ing, in  the  mysterious  existence  of  the  insect,  the 
real  being  that  determines  the  species.  It  is 
already  virtually  male  or  female,  and  its  foresight 
is  now  most  developed.  It  knows  nothing  of 
love:  it  is  preparing  for  another  existence.  After 
having  chosen,  with  invariable  discernment,  the 
nourishment  conducive  to  its  development  and  its 
final  livery^  —  sometimes  glossy,  sometimes  prickly, 
and  sometimes  hairy  ;  sometimes  of  one  color,  and 
sometimes  of  another,  —  it  spins  or  weaves  the 
cocoon  in  which  it  is  to  be  enclosed  for  its  meta- 
morphosis into  a  chrysalis,  or  else  the  thread  by 
which  it  suspends  the  chrysalis.  Certain  very 
numerous  species  choose  fine  earth,  damp  or  dry, 


A  LITTLE  PRAIRIE.  279 

whichever  is  more  suitable  for  burying  the  naked 
mummy. 

These  insects  are  everywhere,  in  the  roots  of 
all  trees,  in  the  rolled  leaves  or  stems  of  all  plants, 
in  the  veins  of  leaves,  the  interior  of  branches, 
the  capsules  of  grain,  the  dust  of  dead  trees,  the 
glume  of  grasses,  the  mud  of  ponds,  and  tlie  pith 
of  reeds ;  in  short,  wherever  there  is  an  element 
of  vegetation,  animal  vegetation  awaits  its  birth, 
and  introduces  its  existence. 

Besides  the  trouhleau  for  gathering  the  caterpil- 
lar, there  was  a  large  hamper  on  the  top  of  the 
carriage,  which  was  to  bring  back  quite  a  little 
prairie  of  plants  not  produced  in  our  calcar- 
eous soil,  to  be  kept  over  winter.  They  are 
taken  up  in  sods,  and  planted  around  the  winter 
quarters  of  the  caterpillars.  We  cannot  make 
them  live  ;  but  they  will  keep  fresh  long  enough 
to  furnish  food  for  these  voracious  people.  These 
plants  are  principally  the  broom,  which  is  ratlier 
rare  in  our  neighborhood.  It  is  very  pretty  and 
very  glossy;  but  its  little  leaves,  its  stems  and 
calyxes,  are  covered  with  a  silky  white  down, 
very  ricli  under  tlie  magnify ing-glass.  Its  deli- 
cate clustera  were,  this  mild  season,  in  blossom  v\i 
the  1st  of  December. 


280  IMPIiESSWNS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

We  intended  to  bring  home  four  species  of  the 
heath  ;  but  one  species,  the  prettiest  in  my  opin- 
ion, we  did  not  find.  Perhaps  I  did  not  search 
thoroughly". 

But  this  was  not  our  whole  freight.  Our 
grand-daughters  did  not  wish  to  deprive  their 
children  of  so  delisrhtful  a  drive  :  so  we  had  to 
find  room  for  their  dolls,  besides  cloaks,  muffs, 
umbrellas,  &c.  Aurore  had  to  take  her  esparto 
basket,  also,  to  bring  home  specimens  of  natural 
histor}'  for  her  own  use,  round  and  rosy  pebbles, 
tufts  of  microscopic  mosses  from  which  to  form 
gardens  and  forests  upon  a  plate,  dried  acorn-cups, 
and  nutgalls,  from  which  the  little  cynips  that 
had  produced  them  in  spring  had  all  disappeared. 
They  have  been  metamorphosed  into  flies,  and, 
towards  the  close  of  summer,  have  perforated 
their  balls,  in  order  to  make  their  escape.  More- 
over, we  considered  that  the  children  would  be 
hungry  and  thirsty  during  the  two  hours ;  and 
the  luncheon-Jeannette  took  the  place  of  honor 
among  all  the  others. 

The  air  was  mild,  the  sun  warm,  and  our  horses 
iswift.  The  earth  was  covered  with  the  young 
grain  like  a  thick  carpet,  through  which  the  red- 
dish soil  was  still  visible.     By  the  reflection  of 


THE  PARTY-MOTTO.  281 

the  sun,  which  at  this  season  comes  nearer  to 
caress  the  earth,  this  seemed  like  a  coating  of  rich 
velvet  upon  the  plain,  which  rises  gradually  from 
our  dark  valley.  A  light  vapor  silvered  the  dis- 
tant landscape.  Every  little  hollow  was  filled 
with  water,  and  shone  hke  a  mirror.  Flocks  of 
ravens,  as  the  rays  of  the  sun  struck  upon  their 
sleek  plumage,  glistened  hke  carbuncles.  Busy 
magpies  were  boring  into  the  moist  earth,  and 
using  very  harsh  language  about  trifles.  Every 
one  for  himself — this  is  the  party-motto. 

You  see  that  I  am  v/riting  my  journal  through 
it  all.  These  parliamentary  disputes  are  the  wind 
and  rain  of  3^esterday  and  to-morrow.  The  con- 
test, viewed  from  afar,  and  in  a  general  way,  may 
be  summed  up  in  two  dominant  ideas,  which  are 
contending  with  each  other. 

Whatever  sliades  of  difference  tlierc  may  be, 
two  opinions  compose  the  national  representation 
of  the  day.  One  maintains  that  man  must  sul>- 
mit  to  a  princi[)le  of  authority  outside  of  liimself : 
the  other,  that  man  niiist  derive  his  authority 
from  himself.  Reason  and  truth  are  with  the 
fonner,  as  also  true  religion,  (jod  i\\i\  not  sufler 
personal  caprice  to  enter  into  his  iinivorsal  jdaii. 
If,  on   no  occasion,  lie   exercises  an  authority  at 


282  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

variance  with  the  laws  which  he  has  established, 
he  has  never  commissioned  one  of  those  micro- 
scopic beings,  styling  themselves  the  human  race, 
to  act  in  his  place.  It  is  very  strange  to  see  a 
fraction  of  them  claiming  the  right  to  command 
in  his  name.  Are  they  partly  gods  themselves? 
Do  they  partake,  in  the  least,  of  the  nature  of 
angels,  to  secure  our  respect?  I  cannot  see  it, 
nor  can  any  one  else.  These  holy  people  have 
too  much  hatred,  violence,  and,  above  all,  ingrati- 
tude, to  convince  us  that  our  highest  good  con- 
sists in  being  under  their  whip  and  command. 

The  others  are  still  wanting  in  union  and  disci- 
pline, although,  in  other  respects,  they  may  have 
made  considerable  progress.  They  do  not  repre- 
sent, in  sufficient  numbers,  the  aspiration  and 
determination  of  actual  France ;  but  their  feeble 
majority  answers  to  an  immense  majority,  which 
will  manifest  itself  better  some  other  time,  we 
may  be  sure,  unless  a  conspiracy  subverts  our 
destiny.  In  the  centre  of  these  squalls  I  behold 
a  ray  of  light.  I  will  not  comj^are  M.  Thiers  to 
the  sun ;  but,  to  my  eyes,  he  shines  with  a  light 
entirely  unknown  to  history,  which  may  serve  as 
a  spark  for  a  new  current  of  patriotic  electricity. 
Here  is  a  man  who  ranks  love  of  country  and 


M.    THIERS.  283 

political  honesty  aljove  every  thing;  above  him- 
self, his  own  sympathies,  his  own  beliefs,  perhaps 
his  own  illusions  ;  making  an  abstraction  of  every 
thing  for  the  sake  of  respecting  human  liberty  as 
much  as  possible  in  these  troublous  times,  when 
necessity  seems  to  present  such  cruel  obstacles. 
While  monarchical  Passion  cries  to  the  scandalized 
world,  "  God  wills  that  this  be  accomplished  for 
our  benefit ; "  while  the  republican  voice  mur- 
murs, with  more  sense,  "  Without  Hberty  of  con- 
science, there  is  no  safety,"  —  an  old  man  rises, 
and  says,  "  You  who  are  here,  postpone  your 
hopes ;  you  who  are  below,  renounce  your  ambi- 
tion. I  stand  before  you,  alone  and  disarmed. 
Tear  me  to  pieces,  crush  me  to  powder :  you  will 
not  make  me  deviate  from  that  course  wherein  I 
believe  lies  the  safety  of  France." 

Whether  tliis  man  might  not  be  mistaken  in 
details  of  more  or  less  importance,  is  of  little 
consequence  to  me  at  this  momentous  time.  I 
behold  something  grand,  a  ruler  of  circumstance, 
who  is  alone  in  his  party,  that  is,  wlio  represents 
the  entire  absence  of  prejudice,  .'uid  who,  pre- 
cisely on  this  account,  rci»rcHcnts  the  spirit  of 
France  to-day :  a  fetich  to  some,  an  ideal  of  intel- 
lectual disinterestedness  to  others.     Power  of  up- 


284  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

lightness,  we  are  not  lost  whilst  thou  shinest 
above  our  multifarious  conflicts,  whilst  thou, 
without  regard  to  the  welfare  of  each,  strivest  for 
the  welfare  of  all !  This  undertaking,  which  has 
not  yet  been  made  apparent,  can  be  accomplished 
only  in  some  unprecedented  situation,  like  the 
present. 

So  this  morning,  with  a  breeze  in  expectation, 
we  reached  the  pond  which  was  the  object  of  our 
two-hours'  drive.  At  our  approach,  a  flock  of 
aquatic  birds  took  to  hasty  flight  across  the  fields, 
to  conceal  themselves  among  the  reeds.  We 
could  not  discover  whether  they  were  wild  geese, 
wild  ducks,  herons,  or  storks.  They  were  black 
above,  and  white  underneath  ;  but  they  uttered 
no  sound  which  could  betray  their  nationality. 
Moreover,  our  little  ones  did  not  allow  us  time  to 
examine  them.  The  pond,  swollen  by  the  rains, 
sent  forth  a  stream  into  the  prairies  which  were 
below  its  actual  level.  In  summer,  it  has  not 
this  abundance,  an  attraction  belonging  to  a  later 
season,  of  which  we  were  already  aware,  and 
which  proved  a  source  of  delight  to  the  children. 
The  sparkling,  limpid  water  rushed,  bubbhng 
and  whirling,  from  its  narrow  channel,  into  the 
meadows,  leaping  over  the  granite  rocks,  where  a 


THE    WOODS  IN  DECEMBER.  285 

few  sprigs  of  wild  thyme  were  still  blossoming 
amid  the  fresh,  velvety  moss,  and  forming  lovely, 
foaming,  noisy  cascades.  During  the  fine  season, 
the  place  is  insignificant,  and  the  ground  fearfull}- 
dry ;  but  to-day  it  was  unusually  beautiful.  Win- 
ter is  pleasant  in  the  country,  whatever  one  may 
say  to  the  contrary.     It  has  its  attractions. 

These  grounds  have  been  considerably  cleared 
up  within  the  last  few  years,  only  certain  spots 
retaining  their  character  of  solitude.  Yet  it  is 
almost  a  wilderness,  has  few  habitations,  and  a 
scattered  population  seldom  visible.  The  slight 
eminences,  which  rise  insensibly,  are  covered  with 
a  light  growth  of  miserable  grass,  but  are  just  now 
charming,  a  mild  russet  tone  softening  their  out- 
line. Profound  silence  reigns  here.  We  entered 
the  woods,  the  carriage  following.  In  spite  of 
the  wet  weather,  the  sandy,  gravelly  roads  were 
dry  and  Irvcl.  Along  tlie  roadsides  were  tufts  of 
gcrmaudrr  in  melancholy  foliage;  a  few  of  tlie 
flowers  were  still  fresli,  also  a  few  braiuhes  of 
piir[)le  heath,  ainl  occasionally  a  beautiful  violet 
scabious,  fully  expanded,  and  displaying,  with  ;in 
ambition  ])erhapH  out  of  place  in  Deceniher,  its 
capitula  in  bud.  The  furzes  were  almost  in 
blossoui ;  these  fluw(  r  all  winter.      Delicate  gar- 


286  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

lands  of  creeping  perforated  Saint  Johnswort,  tra- 
cing figures  upon  the  sand,  intertwined  with  the 
dog-violet  still  green,  great  leaves  of  lungwort 
spotted  with  white,  groups  of  young  pines  con- 
trasting with  the  Florentine  bronze  of  the  with- 
ered leaves  of  the  oak,  completed  the  spectacle; 
while  the  autumnal  dusk,  gilded  by  the  sun,  cast 
over  the  whole  scene  an  enchanting  harmony. 
For  a  moment,  the  long  avenues  would  lead  us  to 
fancy  that  spring  had  awakened,  and  was  shiver- 
ing at  the  extremities  of  the  branches. 

My  son  mowed  with  dexterity,  while  his  daugh- 
ters, seated  upon  stumps  of  oak-trees,  where  I 
had  sjjread  my  cloak,  merrily  ate  their  luncheon. 
Sylvain  followed  with  the  carriage,  sometimes 
wiping  his  foaming  horses  with  the  dried  leaves, 
sometimes  gathering  the  plants  which  were  to  fill 
the  ham23er.  This  was  no  slight  load,  with  the 
earth  clinging  to  the  roots.  I  do  not  know  whether 
the  horses  understood  what  was  going  on.  They 
looked  about,  and  followed  of  themselves,  good- 
naturedly  sniffing. 

Sylvain  has  lived  with  us  since  1845.  He 
is  rather  more  our  master  than  our  servant,  but, 
when  the  children  are  of  the  party,  is  always  in 
a  good  humor.  He  is  extravagantly  fond  of  them, 
and  they  reciprocate  his  aifection. 


THE  SPOILS   OF  THE  EXPLORERS.  287 

After  finishing  our  refreshments,  we  advanced 
into  the  woods.  The  young  people  ran  about  to 
their  hearts'  content,  and  gathered  a  thousand 
tilings  which  they  assigned  to  some  fantastic  use. 
It  was  impossible  to  understand  why  their  pockets 
were  filled  with  stones  and  dead  branches,  which 
appeared  the  next  day,  and  figured  in  their  games, 
as  if  these  stones  and  brushwood  brought  home 
from  the  drive  had  any  particular  value  or  signifi- 
cation. The  wolves  did  not  show  themselves, 
although  we  searched  for  their  tracks.  It  seems 
that  they  do  not  leave  the  thickets  except  when 
there  is  a  thick  fog.  I  observed  my  son  sewing. 
What  a  singular  idea  !  The  trouhleau  had  a  hole, 
through  which  the  caterpillars  whicli  had  been 
captured  were  uimljly  making  their  escape.  He 
repaired  the  rent,  and,  in  quite  a  pers[)iration, 
resumed  his  work.  I  do  not  know  how  he  endured 
tills  gymnastic  exercise  for  three  hours.  At  last, 
the  sun  sank  so  low  as  to  blind  us  witli  its  rod 
light.  We  started  for  home  with  a  heavy  h)a(l  dT 
sods,  two  or  three  hundred  ealerpilhirs,  and  a  f.w 
little  flowers.  Hardly  had  the  litth;  girls  entered 
the  carriage  when  they  stretched  themselves  out 
on  the  seat,  were  wrajijied  uj),  and,  Imlding  their 
dolls  in   their  arms,  fell    fast  asleep,  and  did   not 


288  IMPRESSIONS  AND  REMINISCENCES. 

wake  till  they  reached  home.  But  what  appetites 
for  dinner !  and  what  a  ball  in  the  evening,  till 
nine  o'clock ! 

This  is  how  we  celebrated  the  1st  of  December, 
the  end  of  a  crisis  which  has  but  just  commenced. 
Shall  we  become  merry  in  three  days  ?  Thus  life 
flows  between  two  threatening  banks ;  and  when 
we  have  enjoyed  a  day  of  rest,  sunlight,  and  hope, 
we  say  to  ourselves  that  it  has  always  been  so.  Is 
not  this  the  general  feeling  ? 

Let  us  accept  these  days  of  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness. It  must  be  God  who  gives  them  to  us,  since 
he  has  endowed  us  with  a  mind  to  appreciate  their 
beauty,  and  a  bod}^  to  appreciate  their  benign  influ- 
ence. We  have  had  beautiful  nights  too,  when 
the  heavens  seemed  to  present  a  fairy  spectacle. 
Did  you  see  the  shower  of  falling  stars,  at  Paris, 
on  the  nights  of  the  27th  and  28th  of  November? 
Here  there  were  clear  spaces  in  the  cloudy  sky, 
enabling  me  to  count  twenty-eight  shooting  stars 
in  two  minutes,  in  the  single  constellation  of 
Orion.  A  little  later,  a  gust  of  wind  sweeping 
over  the  whole  heavens,  it  became  impossible  to 
count  or  see  them  all.  In  one  spot,  it  seemed 
like  a  dance  of  lamps  alternately  lighted  and 
extinguished  at  the  extremity  of  their  luminous 


A   CELESTIAL   FETE.  289 

cords.  It  resembled  a  celestial /ete,  where,  instead 
of  flowers,  stars  were  strewed  along  the  path  of 
some  invisible  deity.  We  were  obliged,  during 
the  evening,  to  quiet  the  fears  of  our  servants, 
who  became  very  much  alarmed. 

But  there  is  no  fete  without  a  morrow.  We 
learn  that,  upon  all  the  coasts,  nature,  which  was 
so  beautiful  to  behold  in  our  tranquil  valleys,  was 
fierce  and  inclement.  The  rivers  overflowed,  and 
the  sea  was  tempestuous.  Man,  however  philo- 
sophical or  resigned  lie  may  be,  has  no  reason  to 
be  contented  on  earth ;  and  we  can  understand 
his  aspirations  to  find  a  refuge  in  some  paradise 
arranged  to  his  liking.  It  would  have  been  sensi- 
ble to  say  to  him,  "  Hope,  and  you  will  suffer 
less  ;  "  but  he  has  been  told,  "  Continue  to  suffer, 
and  hope  for  nothing  in  this  world."  Tlie  ignorant 
man  tendered  his  resignation,  while  the  skilful  in 
the  doctrine  held  uncontrolled  sway,  and  gratified 
their  longing  to  have  command  over  this  despica- 
])le  world.  They  are  the  ones  who,  after  having 
counted  tlieir  flocks  in  pilgrimages,  organize  a 
combat,  and  throw  the  glove  to  the  France  of 
Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  But  no  one  will  ]>ick  up 
this  glove,  for  it  is  worn  out ;  it  is  no  longer  lit 
for  the  use  of  the  living  of  to-day :    it  belongs  to 


290  IMPRESSIONS  AND   REMINISCENCES. 

the  skeleton  of  the  past.  There  are  dead  doctrines 
which  cannot  be  discussed.  What  ought  to  be 
protected  is  the  divine  right  belonging  to  every 
upright  conscience  to  govern  itself,  and  to  repulse 
any  authority  maintained  by  the  most  audacious, 
most  guilty  sacrilege  that  man  could  commit,  the 
usurpation  of  power  in  the  name  of  the  Divinity. 
Wolves  are  more  innocent.  They  eat  sheep  be- 
cause they  are  hungry,  just  as  snails  eat  flowers. 
Neither  maintains  that  one  of  them  has  been 
elected  by  heaven  to  gratify  his  longing  for  com- 
bat, and  domination  over  the  others.  Must  we, 
then,  forget  the  human  race,  and  take  up  our  abode 
with  the  animals  of  the  forests  and  the  fields  ? 

No ;  but  let  us  observe  that  nature  has  a  horror 
of  what  is  false,  and  do  not  let  us  forget  that  man 
forms  a  part  of  nature.  He  claims  to  occupy  the 
highest  place :  if  he  feed  on  falsehood,  he  will  fall 
to  the  lowest. 


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